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Fresh

The Tomatometer is 60% or higher.

Rotten

The Tomatometer is 59% or lower.

Certified Fresh

The Tomatometer is 75% or higher, with 40 reviews (movies) or 20 reviews (TV). At least 5 reviews from Top Critics.

Movie Ratings and Reviews

Much like Aronofsky's "The Wrestler," which shows how much damage wrestling wreaks on a human body, despite it being staged, "Black Swan" exposes the emotional and physical tolls of ballet, despite it being so pretty and ladylike. Natalie Portman's performance is painful to watch - in a good way. She's painfully withdrawn, painfully giddy, painfully lithe, and painfully sensual. The masturbation scene is sexy, but it's not meant to be just that. It's guarded at first, then freeing, then painfully embarrassing. Much of the pain, I suppose, comes from the audience knowing that fit is gonna hit the shan at any moment.

Upon first viewing, I thought the movie broke its own set of supernatural rules because all throughout, we're supposed to believe that what Nina sees, feels, and does are figments of her imagination - sprouting swan wings, shanking a bitch. Nina doesn't REALLY sprout wings. Her ankles don't REALLY collapse in on themselves. She doesn't REALLY kill Lily, and as a corollary, she doesn't REALLY stab herself. No other character in the movie can see these psychotic delusions, yet the one that they do see (the bloody gash from aforementioned shanking) just happens to be caused by the only delusion that the filmmakers don't even show the audience (Nina killing herself, apparently, when she thought she was killing Lily).

However, I bought the fantasy-becoming-reality climax more this time for no real reason other than perhaps wanting a believable resolution that mirrors the sacrificial suicide in the plot of "Swan Lake."

David Fincher's adaptation of Gillian Flynn's suburban crime thriller is a suspenseful piece of work. Amy Dunne disappears not entirely without a trace, and her husband, Nick, becomes the prime suspect. The atmosphere gets more and more stifling as the days tick by, and the culture of media vultures is cleverly satirized with casserole-toting trophy wives clamoring for selfies with the handsome though seemingly brutish potential wife-killer. The costume/props departments don't skimp on "oh my god" moments either (like Desi's mid-coital demise and Amy's Carrie-like visage afterwards), and the bookend shots of the back of Amy's head present a creepy, cryptic visual riddle.

That's where my accolades stop though because by the end of the movie, I couldn't make heads or tails of it (or the book it's based on, which I haven't read but hear is remarkably similar). With the incredible (both extraordinary and unbelievable) power imbalance at the end, I didn't know what to take away besides confusion over the zeitgeist appeal of such a misogynistic story. We have a pretty basic portrayal of a sadistic femme fatale - the crazy woman who will ruin a man's life. As such, I find the message of the movie irresponsible at best and reprehensible at worst.

Fans of book and film would counter that the story is a feminist satire on marriage with a brilliant, psychopathic genius who comes out on top. To the "brilliant, psychopathic genius" part, I have to say from a narrative standpoint that Amy is not that brilliant, and it's the filmmakers' machinations that make her seem otherwise. If she WERE such a genius, she wouldn't have brought ALL the money she had in the world in a loosely clipped fanny pack to mini golfing where shady neighbors could see and covet. If the movie weren't pulling the strings, Amy's headshot would have been flashed all over the evening news, and trashy neighbor would have seen through the insultingly easy Clark-Kent-glasses-disguise, perhaps leading Amy to get the hell out before she stupidly answered the door when aforementioned covetous and violent neighbors came a-calling. But of course, all that needed to happen in order for Desi's romantic hostage plot to occur.

The movie also deliberately makes everyone else dumber. Nick should have notified Boney when he found that the scavenger hunt led to the yardbarn of goodies. He was already going to come forward with the affair, so he had nothing to lose on that front. Also, the products were clearly mint, and the clue cards and Punch and Judy puppets with the missing blackjack are too cooked to have been Nick's plan all along. And it's rather farfetched that Margo didn't realize Amy had been stashing stuff in her shed for years. After Amy's bloody homecoming, Nick should have bugged the house before she returned from the police station because even that little pre-shower exchange of her being suspicious of a bug is incriminating enough. He has proven to be pretty savvy with his television interview, and Tanner Bolt, the lawyer who's well-versed in subterfuge, could have at least thought of that too. The third-act must-happens just require too much suspension of disbelief.

From a philosophical standpoint, I disagree that the story is a feminist satire on marriage and relationships. Amy claims that men want the "Cool Girl" - a common societal problem, sure - so she put on the "Cool Girl" costume in order to reel Nick in. The problem is there really is no "Cool Girl" in the movie, at least in the romantic options. Amy is urbane and posh, not down-to-earth or low maintenance. Neither is bubbly and capricious other-woman Andie. The only arguable Cool Girl (sans demanding physical requirements) is sister Margo, whom Nick has (seemingly) no choice but to reject, proving Amy's satirical point moot.

Amy's misanthropic speech on how marriage is two people eventually killing each other with vitriol and manipulations is also too much too late. It's dark and hip to inject nihilistic philosophy into the movie, but it's also too easy and not entirely true. There is no real refutation that holds a mirror up to society to show us our faults, nor is their a nod or wink to the intended satire, which makes all this a base revenge fantasy. The most effective satires aren't revenge fantasies. Even in movies with devilish female characters, they eventually reveal their true solutions to societal problems by the end (like Evelyn does in "The Shape of Things"), or they eventually recognize the absurdity of events leading up to this Mexican stand-off (like in "Closer" or "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf"). The solution in "Gone Girl" is to beat one's spouse into submission through murder and mayhem. If the movie is actually winking at us and saying, "No, that's just an extreme; we don't actually want you to do that," then Amy shouldn't "win" in the end. Both Nick and Amy should end up dazed and confused at the prospect of having to spend the rest of their miserable lives together just to save each other's hides. Hatred layered on top of hatred is a simplistic plot device. Hatred layered on top of love? Now THAT'S marriage.

In "If U Seek Amy: the Grim Grossness of David Fincher's 'Gone Girl,'" writer Wesley Morris claims that Amy's "greatest power is to cry wolf," and since I've enumerated the ways in which she's NOT a diabolical genius, I have to agree. Amy is a dangerous character to champion in this day and age of rape apologists and friendzoned men who think many more women cry wolf and put men in the friendzone than are "legitimately raped" or truly just friends. Amy displays a history of sexually deviant behavior that started long before Nick. Some may claim that she has always been put into a box, what with her mother's Amazing Amy book series, but "mommy issues" seem like an easy scapegoat for such an extreme pattern of sociopathic self-abuse and emotional manipulation - harming herself to pin rape on that one guy and continually putting Desi on the hook, expecting him to save her when she needs it but then disposing of him when the plan fails.

Amy's lies and machinations eventually lead to the undermining of the only two female characters who have any substance at all: Margo and Boney. All the other women are either annoying or flat: the thief is a duplicitous vagrant; the neighbor is meddling and dumb; the casserole woman is obsessed with fame; the bouncy co-ed is needy and totally not cool. Margo, the one person who has any kind of emotional intelligence, begs tearfully for Nick's reconsideration, but he won't/can't. He essentially breaks up with his own sister, leaving her heartbroken. Boney, who up to this point has been a one-note lady-cop, knows something is fishy with Amy's story, but she is cut off by an older male detective who probably knows enough from sensitivity training classes to say the right thing to a rape victim, "Don't blame yourself," but he's actually the one being hoodwinked! Amy's undetected deception may reaffirm rape apologist's preconceived notions of the friendzoning, heartless woman, "Oh women can be abusers too!" When media focuses on female perpetrators of domestic abuse, the public then latches onto it and thinks the ratio of female to male perpetrators is equal when it's not.

Another insidious affirmation is Amy's reclamation of cunt: "The only time you ever liked yourself was when you were trying to be someone this cunt might like." Like with the controversial piece in "The Vagina Monologues," Amy's hella empowered in that moment, but she's still fetishizing the word (making it simultaneously dirty and sexy), which might make some viewers (of any gender) think it's okay to call others (of any gender) that word because it's not so insulting anymore if a woman identifies herself as such.

In the end, the one woman we are left to admire is a brilliant psychopath (arguably), the witchy woman, the ice cold manipulative harpy, and that's a weak support for feminism. She's the femme fatale, and that's still a type - one that there are plenty enough of, from "Fatal Attraction" to "Basic Instinct" to "The Last Seduction." Woman has been painted as temptress of Man since the original Eve. The movie upholds the stereotype of the evil woman who will ruin a man's life. That's not to mean all female characters should subscribe to the tenets of the Eternal Feminine. That'd just be the virgin/whore dichotomy all over again. We can have a strong and complex female character with flaws, but Amy is larger than life. If she has flaws, they don't figure into the plot because she lives outside the morals of the "normal world." She wins, but does she really? Is this really a win for feminism?

Todd VanDerWerff in his article, "Gone Girl is the Most Feminist Mainstream Film in Years," claims that Amy is a "Frankenstein's Monster," cobbled out of all the oppressive societal expectations for women, and that the film is feminist because by the end, she relegates Nick to the very type of supportive wife character that women are called on to play in scads of male-centric stories. (Sidebar: Is this a female-centric movie after all? Only Ben Affleck appears on the poster, and he's the one most sympathetically portrayed throughout the film. Any character who is kind to an animal pretty much gets an automatic pass.) However, I'm afraid that assessment gives exactly the wrong impression of feminism that most feminists seem to argue for. Many males and females alike already think feminism is about hating men and overpowering them. If feminism is really equalism, then my aforementioned ending of them both being stuck and unhappy would be a fairer representation of what happens after the facades fall. The power imbalance clearly tips toward Amy, so if the film IS feminist, it's a very radical, unequal feminism.

This echoes the privilege issue of why many activists say Men's Rights can't exist or White Pride or Straight Pride can't exist. The systems in power can't "rise up" any higher than they are; they are the ones oppressing minorities, whether or not they know it. They are recognized as the default...even though minorities strive to rid that rhetoric of "default" or "normal." But then where does the cycle of victimhood stop? Is it fair to cheer for this woman beating a man because women currently have less power than men? Is that justice or revenge? If we cheer more for a woman's victory over a man, aren't we still underselling women by thinking it's so impressive and out of the ordinary to beat a man? The double standard still exists, like with any multitude of sins that one gender can commit but is frowned upon if another gender does (in the vacuum of a two-gender world, of course).

All in all, "Gone Girl" is taut and suspenseful with some sick twists and turns, but it's not particularly smart in its characterization or plotting, nor is it vanguard when viewed through critical lenses. It lacks the emotional vulnerability and true social satire of effective domestic dramas that came before, and it only shines when it's exercising (instead of exorcising - zing!) every incredulously negative behavior of the femme fatale trope.

Incredibly embarrassing effort from Christopher Walken who looked so much like he was reading from cue cards that the off-rhythm performance couldn't be chocked up to his usually characteristic insouciance. Allison Williams is beautiful and fit with a crystal clear singing voice to boot, but she didn't really bring much to the character of Peter Pan. She wasn't particularly funny, bold, boyish, or anything - just an adult woman speaking and singing the lines of a teenage boy. Broadway star Kelli O'Hara as Mrs. Darling and Taylor Louderman as Wendy were the highlights.

I know the point of Peter Pan is to never let go of that wonder and curiosity you had as a child, but the mothering theme is so awkward. Wendy's bending over backwards here for this boy who hardly knows she exists as a romantic interest. Are all men essentially looking to marry their mothers? Do all women grow up to be mothers? Is it kosher to send your daughter off to "mother" this perpetual boy you once crushed on?

I love Eddie Redmayne, and he ostensibly stepped into the role of Stephen Hawking both mentally and physically (if a bit Austin Powersly). His dragging feet, spinal curve, and slurred speech were not just acting but embodiment. However, I can't say I'm fully wowed, and I wonder if it's Redmayne's performance (adept though somewhat...overstudied...?) or the oblique script molded around his performance.

For a movie about Stephen and Jane Hawking's young, transcendent love, there's very little development over why they fell for each other in the first place and how their ideological differences over science and religion informed their relationship. Redmayne and Felicity Jones just stare shyly and longingly at each other, but the chemistry generated is merely surface heat between two beautiful actors.

The most tension-filled parts of the movie are with Charlie Cox (whom I adored in "Stardust" but haven't seen since) as the lovelorn widower in the Hawkings's chaste menage. Jane and Jonathan getting together is a better love story than Jane and Stephen's, partly because Stephen's motives in divorcing Jane are unclear. The script makes it seem like he was callously leaving Jane for Elaine, but it had to have been an act of mercy, thanks, and apology, right? Even though it would have been too Hollywood, I would have liked a scene of Stephen and Jonathan, with the former basically telling the latter to give his wife a better life.

Really quite lovely. I didn't like Nick Hornby's book due to its multiple narrators schtick, but the cinematic treatment only switches once per character and at very opportune spots too so that each person's reasons for committing suicide is evenly plotted out. The scene stealer for me was Imogen Poots, an ingénue with an unfortunate name but a face that is jubilant one second and numbly crestfallen the next. I love that scene when Jess comes out of the hospital in her open-backed gown - all cheeky bravado (literally and figuratively), striking a rockstar pose, then all hot, snotty, mascara-streaked mess as she tries to explain away her accidental overdose.

Toni Collette is also brilliantly reserved and makes maternal instinct look like a matter of course. Pierce Brosnan - not usually lauded for his acting - plays the aging playboy with sleaze yet gravitas. Martin's monologue about feeling humiliated felt both emotionally and physically painful, as reflected in Brosnan's taut jaw and gritted teeth. Aaron Paul is Aaron Paul - intense, swaggery, serviceable.

No GG nomination for the McConaissance?!?! Bullshit! I was so sure he could be a back-to-back Oscar winner! That scene of him balls-out bawling while watching backlogs of Tom's video messages is just so...I don't even know! Our facial expressions are so heavily influenced by how we THINK we should look based on emotional representations in visual media. Is this how people look when they're experiencing emotions? Even if not, I just wanna look like Matthew McConaughey all the time!

"Interstellar" is the only Christopher Nolan movie I've liked since "Memento." This sprawling space and time saga is set in the nearly apocalyptic future where food is scarce, farming is an essential though still blue-collar career, NASA has become SNASA (Secret NASA), and the smoonlanding (secret moonlanding) is thought to have been faked. Cooper is an aeronautical pilot tapped for a dangerous mission of indefinite duration to find new life-sustaining planets. His young daughter never quite forgives him for leaving, and his quest is one of survival and return.

I especially love the scene of Coop driving away in a cloud of dust, underscored by the space shuttle countdown. Mackenzie Foy as young Murph is sweet and teary, and Jessica Chastain deftly takes her into adulthood as a tough yet tender space crusader. Surprise Matt Damon (the best kind of Matt Damon) is tender and menacing as the "destroyer of worlds" - a recurring motif that I enjoy in Nolan's work.

The movie has its nonsensical flaws, of course. Wes Bentley's character is killed off way to quickly and anticlimactically because emotional plot point. The one equation to save humanity is a mere deus ex machina McGuffin. It's not explained in any plausible, scientific manner; we just have to roll with it. And dat Anne Hathaway doe. So melt-your-face-off-brilliant in "Les Miserables," yet so full of nothing in this. Dr. Brand has gumption written into her, but Hathaway can't infuse enough life into a character with no compelling purpose or motivation beyond blah-blah-save-the-human-race-blah-blah-love-conquers-all.

Half-assed and a quarter. Aubrey Plaza really phoned this one in with her higher whiney vocal range instead of her lower "give no fucks" vocal range. She could have even Janet Snakeholed it up a bit in the dramatic fantasy segments, but nope.

Megan Charpentier is pretty natural for a kid actress, and Russell Peters as the inciting incident Santa is the highlight of this weird, embarrassing effort. The metatheatrical jokes are awkward and annoying, but they kinda won me over in the end, especially with the dig at Lifetime's typical programming.

I have to say though, I'm pretty much over the Grumpy Cat pheno-meme-on. Tardar Sauce isn't grumpy; that's just the way her face is shaped (http://vimeo.com/groups/184633/videos/54953791), and her owners can't pretend that the genesis of her name isn't obviously an off-color joke.

All the Hunger Games movies so far have gotten 3 stars from me. They're good enough that I wish they were better, which is what I say about Kristen Stewart, yet ironically, I gave all the Twilight movies 3.5s - probably because they were better than they had any right to be, given the source material.

My criticisms of this film are pretty much the same as for "Catching Fire." Media and critical darling JLaw (now fresh off her nom for sassy yet so-what Rosalyn in "American Hustle") over-emotes a little bit (or is edited badly), but her deadpan snark is still winning and her singing voice is nice and Appalachian. Peeta is still criminally under-represented. Make-up and costuming could have done more to show signs of torture and starvation right from the get-go so that when Katniss first remarks on his changed visage, I would have thought, "Yes, he does look thinner," instead of, "Huh? He looks exactly the same." And once again, I'm not sure if Josh Hutcherson is just not meeting my expectations acting-wise, or if the filmmakers aren't giving him enough direction, but the last scene of trackerjacked and straitjacketed Peeta thrashing around on the bed in that white room is so one-note. He's just shrieking and flailing aimlessly. I expected Peeta to catch a glimpse of Katniss through the glass, freeze, smile or grimace maniacally, then resume shouting muted epithets at her. Give him something to shriek and flail AT.

Anyhoodles, out of all the YA franchises that have chosen to split the last installment into two, this one seems to have been the most ill-advised decision. The pacing is slow, each plot point is unnecessarily drawn out, the peaks are high but the valleys are too low, and there are hardly enough events left to make part two a whole movie on its own.

Strangely not enamored by this. I like Chris Pratt's Andy Dwyer on "Parks and Recreation," and his buff transformation is impressive and hath had no detriment yet upon his humor, but the movie was kinda meh. It tried to be different from other comic book movies, but it tried too hard - relying on tried-and-true soundtrack hits, milking the cuteness and emotional climaxes, and wedging in melodramatic backstory to give depth to the waggish protagonist. Perhaps it was overhyped. Incessant postings of "I am Groot" must have ruined me.

UGH ALL THE FEEEEELZ!!! Seeing this YA spectral romance in a crowded theatre of college undergrads hooting and hollering at their screen idols was certainly an awkward yet nostalgic celebration for the eve of my 30th birthday.

Mia is in a coma from a car accident that claimed the lives of her parents and brother, and she hovers in the in-between as her friends, extended family, and totally-dreamy-grunge-rocker-ex-boyfriend complicate her choice whether to move on or to stay. The backstory is evenly parceled out, introducing her kooky and loveable musical family and the tumultuous yet realistic relationship with aforementioned ex-lover Adam, played by the winsomely wounded Jamie Blackley.

Mia describes Adam as someone who is already the person he is meant to be, and that seems like such a YA cliché, but it's pretty well represented in this story. He knows his abandonment issues, he knows his passive-aggressive tactics, he knows his limits in a romantic relationship, and he knows Mia underneath her Debbie Harry get-up. Papering Mia's bedroom ceiling with the replica of the audition hall's ceiling is the sweetest thing evar, and apparently, it wasn't even in the book!

Chloe Grace Moretz is grounded and mature as Mia, but the high-stress moments (such as the Ghosting after the accident [not the pottery one] and sprinting through the hospital halls after Teddy dies) tested CGM's indignant/furious/afraid facial expressions - all of which were kinda similar. I almost expected her to yell "Fuck!" when she collapses in the hall (she being no stranger to blue language), but alas, MPAA rating and whatnot.

Not what I expected! This looked to be a typical summer blockbuster featuring a stock badass heroine played by fresh-off-of-Avengers Scarlett Johansson, but it's actually a remarkably cerebral and visually stylish, globetrotting race against human mortality. Like "Limitless," there's a drug that enhances the human brain's capacity to function past the mythical 10%. However, the unwitting drug-mule Lucy's quest isn't just one of revenge or power or pleasure; it's a self-sacrificial quest for mortal experience and immortal knowledge - which may be selfish in the Faustian sense - but still, Luc Besson's sci-fi parable is challenging and enigmatic.

ScarJo is rather good and comical in her robotic blankness, yet also achingly human in that one phone call monologue to her mom about being able to feel every single experience she's ever had. I also especially enjoyed the many references to my recently viewed "2001: A Space Odyssey": the drug-induced kaleidoscopic chromolume, Lucy visiting her hominin namesake, and of course, the monolith turned jump drive - now shrunken down to the littlest, blackest metaphor.

Not particularly memorable, scary, funny, or quotable. Floppy-haired Omri Katz is very likable as Max, the skeptic protagonist, and young Thora Birch as his sister is impish and adorable. The blossoming friendships between Max, Allison, Dani, and Binx are more compelling than the witchy Halloween lore.

It's like, whoa, you know? I'm glad I got to see this on the big screen because it was just like...whoa...you know?

During the first however many minutes of ominous tones, I kept thinking I was seeing images on the blank screen. They turned out to be just retinal shadows, but the suspense was so awesomely claustrophobic. So many spoofs and homages of Kubrick's ethereal blend of airless space, kaleidoscopic frenzy, and classical music did not diminish this movie-watching experience for me, and what an experience it was. The story, while ponderingly slow and ham-fisted, is an epic fantasia full of cacophony and silence, peace and fear, primitive pasts and equally primitive futures.

The SFX were ridiculously advanced; images of Earth and space look just like recent representations in "Gravity" or "Interstellar." The "gravity boots" were an ingenious way to sidestep the weightlessness effect. Keir Dullea is remarkably good and understated as Dr. Dave Bowman, in all his heavy breathing and bottled-up rage. HAL, of course, is a freakish delight.

I wasn't quite sold on the symbolism of the monolith, and I expected the piercing noise that it emitted to have some kind of debilitating, foreshadowing effect, but alas, it was only just a biggest, blackest, metaphor.

Finger-snapping, head-bopping fun! Tom Everett Scott is effortlessly cool with his ugly-sexy mug, and Liv Tyler is luminous and effervescent. Steve Zahn looks suave and uncharacteristically the most grown up of the bunch. The O-nedders. Hyuk.

GAAAHHH!!! Really? Never has cancer-stricken-woman-lives-life-to-the-fullest been so...real. There's a special place in my heart for "A Walk to Remember," but it's admittedly saccharine and melodramatic. "Sweet November" may make you feel gooey, but the characters live in a pretty harsh and diverse world.

Jason Isaacs and Michael Rosenbaum play delightful supporting characters of the loving drag queen couple next door. Charlize Theron has the rare ability/beauty? to ground a quirky character, and Keanu Reeves is, well, stone-faced enough to portray emotionless at first, then dazed with grief later. The 12 Gifts of Christmas bit is so hokey, but you just have to roll with Keanu trying to be manic and cute.

Zach Braff's crowd-funded sophomore effort received a lot of flack for its privileged genesis, its grammatically incorrect pseudo-clever title, and its obliqued trailer full of indie-pretentious images that drew inevitable comparisons to Braff's polarizing "Garden State." However, I was pleasantly surprised that "Wish I Was Here" is NOT just a continuation of Andrew Largeman's ennui-driven love story.

The movie is a realistic and funny treatment of Gen-Yers tasked with adult responsibilities of unruly kids, libido-less spouses, estranged siblings, and reconnecting with once tyrannical and now dying parents. Aidan Bloom is a dopey suburban dad who has to homeschool his kids after his father defaults on their yeshiva tuition due to exorbitant medical bills. Aidan's brand of guerilla life lesson is random and uplifting but not in a way that insists upon itself.

The local color of Los Angeles is quirky and moving with the disparate cultures of "Yom Kippur Jews," audition-circuit actors, and furry cosplayers. Brown Bear Donald Faison also cameos in an irreverent little misunderstanding that blends the cancer motif with the sheitel (wig) motif of Orthodox Judaism.

The kid actors are adorable: Joey King is a sweet, bright-eyed innocent, and Pierce Gagnon is as hilariously foulmouthed in this as he was creepy in "Looper." Kate Hudson is nicely glam-glum as the working mom who lost track of her dreams, but her character tips into "long-suffering-wife" territory with no true motivation or credit. When her erstwhile disapproving father-in-law gives her the rare compliment that she has the power to be a great matriarch someday, she counters, "I already am a great matriarch." She should have just stopped there instead of negating her power with, "Well, I'm trying anyway."

The reconciliation plot between father and sons is a bit cloying and sentimental, but on the whole, the movie is joyful, especially the end montage of little happinesses experienced in the moment before daughter Grace resurfaces from her first purifying foray into the water. I wouldn't say it's better than "Garden State" as a whole though. Despite the predecessor's reliance on the hipster atmospheric aesthetic, it really WAS the height of the mid-aughts' affected yet affecting quarter-life crisis movie - with its non sequitur humor, indie soundtrack, and tap-dancing Natalie Portman at her most heart-swelling. "Wish I Was Here" is beautifully nostalgic for the present, but it doesn't seem to commit hard enough.

Contract killers from the future are sent back in time to be terminated by their younger selves, but one man is able to escape certain death. Helluva twisty ride, and despite the time travel concept and JGL's ridiculous Bruce Willis make-up, it's much more sensical than Rian Johnson's debut "Brick." The first act still retains Johnson's penchant for quick cool patois, but it's used as straightforward exposition and not verbose McGuffins.

The second act relies on some icky "saved by the love of a good woman" tripe, but the introduction of Emily Blunt's character as a fiercely protective mother of the future's sociopathic despot is surprisingly raw and heartbreaking.

I wouldn't say the ending is predictable, but when it came, I thought, "Oooof cooourse. It's the most logical ending." So yeah, the movie is pretty satisfying as a whole, but the looping quality makes for a Terminator paradox. If "this" never happened, why would "that" need to happen in the future, you know what I mean?

Much credit should be given to this mammoth undertaking: actors committed to a story for twelve years, and the young Ellar Coltrane is indeed magnetic and soulful. However, the movie could have easily been called "Motherhood," or "Fatherhood," or "Girlhood" because any of those characters' stories are equally if not more compelling than Mason's.

Mason is a smart but misunderstood kid who becomes an emo-hipster loner artiste. It's all a bit predictable, and the plot points are somewhat emotionally manipulative. There are so many douchey stepfather figures, but we get some melodramatic Lifetimey moments, then nothing else. What happens to the stepsiblings? The girlfriend drama seems so calculated and random especially since by all accounts, Sheena and Mason seem to really have a mature soul connection. The pale attempt at "Before Sunrise"-esque introspection at the end with new college girl is bland and inarticulate in a millennial way.

A magician con artist is tasked to expose a winsome psychic, and sparks fly! Colin Firth is dashingly aloof, and Emma Stone is blissfully light, but they lack chemistry together. Perhaps it's their age difference; perhaps it's their characters' lack of actual getting to know each other. The central question of the movie seems to be about faith. Does a greater power exist, and if so, is Sophie a real psychic? However, these deep questions are forgotten in favor of Woody Allen's canned "opposites attract" romcom plot.

The most powerful scene of the movie (and a vulnerable piece of acting from Oscar-winner Firth) is the moment when devout atheist Stanley puts his trust in prayer. He prays for his aunt's recovery, but then he stops abruptly, and I expected him (and Woody for that matter) to transcend type to realize the selfishness of his prayer and instead pray for his aunt's peaceful passing.

But no, we get a motivation-less epiphany about Sophie's fraudulent predictions, which is difficult to believe because so much suspense has already been built up around her inexplicable phenomena that the audience is just meant to roll with it, but the movie pulls the rug out from under us in an unmasking that is too deus ex machina.

Tour de force performance from Jenny Slate. She may be the nasally Jewish princess on "Parks & Recreation" and the baby-cute Marcel the Shell, but girl's got range. Slate carries this movie as Donna, a stand-up comedienne who gets pregnant from a one-night stand and decides to have an abortion. Her stand-up is raunchy but candid, her vulnerability is quirky yet tragic, and her "flustration" is sweetly abashed. A cast of adorable supporting characters also lends this quarter-life crisis movie a dash of light optimism.

What's also great about this story is that it's truly unpredictable. Is she going to get the abortion? Is she going to fall in love with this new vanilla bean beau? Some viewers might think Max is unrealistic - too understanding and too patient - but Max and Donna clearly have great chemistry. He likes her; he's not just there to further her story. Everything that needs to happen happens, but none of it is too cooked.

Rather delightful. The theme of the power of music on love and friendship is more substantial in this film than in John Carney's "Once," which was more a series of amateur music videos. A pastiche of down-and-out musicians make a guerrilla album on the streets of NYC. Lovers break up over the temptations of music industry fame. Estranged father and daughter bond. Former lovers reach a cathartic goodbye that is neither too sad nor too happy.

I really enjoy the first date idea of walking while listening to each other's favorite songs, but Gretta's guilty pleasures of "Luck Be a Lady" and "As Time Goes By" are such cliché beloved classics. Also, Miriam's assessment of her teen daughter Violet's risqué clothing choices as her own is at least empowering and fair at first, but that gets stripped away later when Gretta plays big sister and subtly slut shames Violet. Hailee Steinfeld's smoker-voiced loner girl seemed complex, so I was hoping Violet would be a bit more self-possessed.

And of course, it has long pained me to admit that in the past five years, I've grown to prefer Keira Knightley over her doppelganger Natalie Portman, but maybe I just have to own the pleasure of enjoying Keira in her willowy hipster chic roles. She's quite normal-girl charming again. Her singing voice is a bit weak - not quite as old-school robust as in "Edge of Love" - but it's light and sweet enough for the indie folk genre.

Seth MacFarlane is a versatile seriocomedic actor with a delicious basso voice, and Charlize Theron is a hip chick with surprisingly great deadpan timing. He can sing; she can dance. Is there anything they can't do? The anachronistic quips about life in the Old West are funny, and the commentary on Beta Male cowardice has a redeeming resolution, but on the whole, the plot is a bit forgettable. I was also hoping Amanda Seyfried would channel her Karen daffiness from "Mean Girls" to make Louise a more compelling ex-girlfriend character.

Three headstrong single women in idyllic Eastwick wish for their dream beaux, and a devilish new stranger comes to town to seduce them in turn. Cher, Sarandon, and Pfeiffer are brassy, sensual, and sweet, respectively, and Jack Nicholson is the epitome of the diabolical wag.

Daryl van Horne spouts some base misogyny, which has the potential to be clever and satirical if only there were some wink at the audience. The trio of women gets their revenge through sorcery, but they still raise Daryl's lovechildren and treat him as merely an exasperating, absentee father rather than quashing his sacrilegious doctrine, defeating him for good, or at least spurning him for the Satan proxy he is.

Upon learning that this movie was adapted from a novel by John Updike, a writer I admire, I expected the hijinx to lead to something deeper. Is Daryl a Satan proxy or a God proxy? Daryl rants about how he gave the girls everything, and then when they forsake him, he will seek retribution. Isn't that the depiction of a vengeful and wrathful God? Is the satire on how often godliness and wickedness coincide? Well, apparently the original novel was intended as a feminist manifesto (even though the women are represented as actual witches), but there isn't much in the way of theological commentary, so I don't know what to make of book or film.

This movie starts out with heated sociopolitical debate and a great feminist role model, but then brassy, independent Katie devolves into Overly Attached Girlfriend - fawning over Hubbell, the poor little rich boy with a streak of writing talent, who buys her a beer and patronizingly ties her freakin' shoe? (I hate all shoe-tying imagery in art! I hate it when looks-so-much-like-his-dead-mother Ginny does it to Harry Potter. I hate it when Ted does it to baby-talking Boats-Boats-Boats Becky on HIMYM. I surprisingly don't mind glass slipper symbology because it's quick, okay? You just slip it on. "It's the condom of our generation." Tying a shoe is a ham-handed, Oedipal commitment of a romantic gesture.)

Anyway, Katie essentially rapes him and ropes him into falling in love with her, but she's made to apologize so much for her tempestuousness and "wrong style" while Robert Redford's dead eyes glaze over in a masquerade of privileged, white, liberal ennui.

The flashback structure of the film's beginning is also wasted. I thought YEARS had gone by before they meet again and that the whole movie would be about their college relationship and "the way they were"... The movie gets so episodic after that inciting incident, documenting every bit of grueling conflict contributing to their doomed partnership.

A donnee or redemption moment nearly appears when Katie shouts, "You'll never find anyone as good for you as I am, to believe in you as much as I do or to love you as much!" but it's too late. They're still wrong for each other, but we're never given a convincing enough reason in the script or the performances for why they got together in the first place and why they stayed together for so long. And he never meets their daughter? Weird.

Geesh. So I read the book, and it's fine. Its themes of love and death aren't particularly deep or new; in fact, they are a bit contradictory and a mishmash of different philosophies. Hazel is fine. Without the easy literary trait of strength-and-detachment-derived-from-cancer, she's a snarky blank slate for tween readers to project themselves on. Gus is goofy and charming, but he also thinks he's sooo cute. The constant "Hazel Gracing" gets a bit cloying.

The movie is essentially a good adaptation of the book. Shailene Woodley is strong, detached, snarky...yet a bit blank. Ansel Elgort is goofy, charming, cute...yet a bit cloying. What really bumps me though is that I don't buy their chemistry. Now this opinion may be colored by their sibling relationship in "Divergent" (Holy Incestuous Casting, Batman!), but while they smile and stare with loving eyes, I can't help but feel that they're in different movies, loving different people in different frames.

Some plot points are faithful to the source material...yet still strange. The kiss ovation at the Anne Frank House is strange. Hazel calling Peter van Houten "douchepants" is strange. None of the eulogies really move me, like they don't in the book. However, I am most disappointed because my one favorite scene does not get its due: when Gus gets stranded in a parking lot and pukes all over himself while Hazel tries to secure his feeding tube to no avail. That's the one scene in the book that really shows the abject horror and humiliation of cancer, but it's totally PGed in the movie.

Holy hell. Hilarious and three-quarters. This sequel pokes fun at sequels, meet-cutes, homoeroticism, codependent relationships - all at a bracing mile a minute so the formula doesn't seem so formulaic. I found myself referencing quips, events, and characters even weeks later. Jillian Bell is a caustic, deadpan bitch, and Dave Franco is a quivery little prison bitch, both in the best ways possible.

Includes all the ingredients of an indie movie: an aimless nogoodnik, an estranged family who tests his adult responsibilities, a strange part-time job that requires a quirky/cute costume, a redemption moment that establishes his self-worth and strengthens his bond with aforemetioned estranged family.

It's all very nice, and I like the quirky filmmaking aspects as well, like zooming in on weird physical phenomena, like the ghosty rotations a plastic spoon makes after you let go from stirring it.

I would have liked a bit more life or explanation in Lisa Kudrow's character. Yes, she's a depressive, but there isn't much for the character or actor to do, and the reasons for her affair are just a bit too indie-understated...indiestated? I also wonder why Salman leaves before reconciling with his brother, which seems to have been a source of tension throughout the whole movie.

Having religiously read the book series but not having seen the original television show, I thought this VHS goodie was the funnest thing EVAR: with the bass-slapping, clap-happy music; the cutesy, chaste romance; the delicious mean girl villain played by throwing-shade-like-it's-her-job Marla Sokoloff; and the all-star cast of 90s dream queens who were playing thirteen but were actually in their mid-teens but looked like they were in their late teens :~P

Upon watching half a hot mess episode of the television show (which just went off Netflix), with its age-accurate, plain-faced kid-vid actresses, I had to pop in my new DVD to revel in the shine and glory of its Hollywood treatment. The exposition and dialogue are indeed hokey at times, but the main summer camp plot and the subplots of Kristy's ne'er-do-well dad coming back and Stacey's flirtation with older Luca are really quite inspired and deftly intertwined, in a narrative sense. The adult actors are also very good without pulling focus.

Angelina Jolie is magnificent when she's maleficent - with that blithe drawl, those snaky horns, and them diamond-sharp cheekbones. Her portrayal of young Maleficent as a moorland fairy is a bit uneven though. Her voice is all shouty and her posture is all action hero-y, with no real indicator of the ethereal or powerful being lurking within if only a dastardly man would ravage her and uncover it (a cliched narrative device in itself).

This origin retelling is fair enough with some surprisingly funny bits, like the antics of the bumbling and long-suffering fairy godmothers, and the far-from-maternal Maleficent's encounter with five-year-old Aurora who insists on being picked up. Vivienne Jolie-Pitt is rather darling in that scene, and Angelina is uncharacteristically comically deadpan. Elle Fanning's face still bothers me, but she's a good cryer.

Spoilery:

If this reimagined depiction of true love had come out before "Frozen," I think we all would have found it more compelling. The motherly love shown here is still rather beautiful and heartrending, but I could actually predict it. I expected a happier treatment of romantic love too, but that hardly gets any due with the pretty but ineffectual Prince Phillip and the arrogant and vengeful King Stefan who can't do the logical thing of ending this feud against his first love. Why didn't anybody just say, "Look: Aurora's awake. No harm, no foul"?

I never thought all-nose-and-ears John Turturro to be "a beautiful man," but age has really agreed with him, as he is indeed smoldering and sexy in an earthy way in his directorial debut. Cross-generational friends, played by Woody Allen and Turturro, embark on a prostitution business venture, and Fioravante, the titular fading gigolo, stoically seduces the stereotypical bombshells (played lusciously by Sharon Stone but somewhat tritely by Sofia Vergara, who seems so naturally sexy that she probably can't "act" sexy).

In the diverse neighborhood of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, racial and ethnic tensions arise, but a small oasis of intimacy is found between Fioravante and a young Hasidic widow who calls upon his services but not in a sexual way. Vanessa Paradis is lovely, reserved, and beguiling as Avigal, and her cathartic crying upon Fioravante's straightforward massage is uncomfortable yet freeing.

Beautiful moments abound in their budding meeting of the souls, but Turturro's script misses several beats, perhaps in favor of not spelling things out for the audience that could really have used some spelling out. How is Fioravante so good with the ladies, and how did Murray know he would be? What was his past like? Was he a bit of a Lothario before tragedy transformed him into this melancholy florist? Did pimp and gigolo already know Avigal's endgame? Does Avigal even like Dovi beyond neighbors since he's such a badgering "but I'm a nice guy" jackass?

"Fading Gigolo," with its meditative explorations of human intercourse, is like a Woody Allen movie not written or directed by Woody Allen - down to its jazzy, sublime soundtrack and unfortunately forgotten details.

This mockumentary about a human chameleon who is able to change race, appearance, and professional demeanor at will is rather clever with the "archive footage," the smoooth 'n smarmy radio-voiced "narrator," and the "cameo interviews" with actual famous literati, but the movie tips on the tightrope of Woody Allen's slapstick inanity and Woody Allen's in-depth human analysis without ever transcending to the latter.

I'm not one for blanket political correctness, but if you're gonna use blackface and slant-eyed make-up, you've gotta say something narratively relevant and not just treat it as a gag. There's so much social and cultural critique to be mined for both smart comedy and introspective pathos: people's prejudices toward different races, the knowledge of one's own race as the Other, the oftentimes unquestioned authority of those in respected professions, et cetera.

The fictional Dr. Eudora Fletcher states that to the untrained observer, Zelig's faux-psychiatrist sounds realistic, but he's really just deploying cliched lingo. It would follow that Zelig adopts different stereotypical speech patterns for different races or classes, but all of this "research" is presented in silent "archive footage," not some tour de force bit of spoof acting like Robert Downey Jr.'s in "Tropic Thunder." Nothing changes within Woody or Zelig to actually BECOME or even inhabit another personality, which is sadly unsurprising since Woody Allen seems incapable of playing anyone other than Woody Allen. (And anyway, mimicking Dr. Fletcher is technically a plothole because Zelig's chameleonic power doesn't work with or on women.)

Without grounding in what it actually means to "pass" as a different race, class, or other distinction, this lightweight premise and execution is almost as insulting as Woody's blind man bit in "Hollywood Ending."

Does antisocial meanness, shrill dramatics, petulant assholery, and non sequitur screaming pass for comedy? Never mind the baseless and cyclical love story between nebbish Coop and sweet but heartless Katie, the movie is a series of daffy improv skits, not a cohesive story. The few clever one-liners are delivered so emphatically that they lose timing and believability. This dreck is neither wet nor hot nor American nor summery.

Pretty enjoyable for its awkward, disaffected teen patois and the goofy bravado of this incarnation of Spider-Man, but Andrew Garfield's swagger is getting a bit too smug for his spandex - nearly reaching "acting is attracting" territory. His chemistry with real-life girlfriend Emma Stone provides some realistic relationship tension, but Peter and Gwen's roller coaster of break-ups and make-ups wore on unnecessarily, cutting into the subplot with Dane DeHaan's creepy/charismatic turn as privileged but neglected Harry, which gets haphazardly shoved into the third act.

Perhaps more importantly, the relentless will-they-won't-they took up so much time that Gwen is relegated to girlfriend-of-the-hero status like in so many superhero movies, which Emma Stone and the first movie seemed to try hard not to do.

At a recent fan panel, Garfield made the seemingly innocuous, offhand comment about how Spider-Man sewing his own costume is girly or feminine, and Stone asked him to clarify what he meant by feminine, in a subtly charged incident that revealed his gender-biased rhetoric and antiquated notion of traditional gender roles.

Like Stone, Gwen is smart and capable and has a life of her own, but this installment is rather vague about her strengths. They come off as weaknesses instead because while she is plucky and fashionable and tries to help as Spider-Man's equal, she clearly isn't, physically, and she just gets in the way and spells her own demise. The intersection of life imitating art imitating life feels like a step backward from what felt like a strong female love interest.

So freakin' stupid. The exposition sets up all the boys' distinct personalities, only to squander the rest of the movie with unmotivated action and bland yet frantic adventure. None of the boys' traits really play into the solving of the puzzles except the stereotypical techie Asian's. Mikey's dweeby hamartia of asthma doesn't even provide an obstacle or suspense. Stuff happens to the boys, and nothing is too dangerous or scary to warrant any real emotional investment in their journey.

Also disappointing, much like with "Nobody puts Baby in the corner" and "You're killing me, Smalls," quotable gems like "Goonies never say die" and "Sloth loves Chunk" are completely lackluster in context. As for the former, I expected it to be a real club philosophy, a rallying battle cry born of a previous adventure during which they almost died but didn't, therefore cementing their stalwart courage in the face of certain death! "Goonies never say die" is only said once as a throwaway line without set-up or follow-up. As for the latter, could Sloth BE more disturbing as a child's nightmare come to life? He's the monster with soul, but the love is just played for laughs instead of true pathos.

In the decade or so since I first saw "Les Quatre cents coups" on that fateful day in film class, it has become one of those litmus test films, during which, I stress myself out anticipating my friends' reactions to the movie almost as much as watching the movie itself. Sad to say, perceptions change when watching films with different people and at different times of life and sometimes, when the denouement is known.

As pure and as unadulterately awesome as that denouement is, with young Jean-Pierre Léaud's impressively improvised tales of Antoine's teenage woes and the endless run to the beach, the adagio and sometimes broken pacing of the rest of film seems to redeem itself only because of that ending. And perhaps also Jean Constantin's mesmerizing zither score.

Early neo-zombie flick is chilling in its unapologetic depiction of our fierce will to survive and the inhuman violence in humanity...and vice versa. Cillian Murphy is a bit bland at first, but then he gets balls-to-the-wall psycho. Naomie Harris (whom I erroneously thought was a recent ingenue) is bold and tough as the pitiless then maternal Selena, and the little bits of humor and camaraderie in this ragtag family are heartwarming. "The Walking Dead" seems to have taken its entire premise from this movie.

Banksy's directorial debut and it shows. It nears mockumentary status for how the subject of the film essentially becomes the filmmaker, but that switch comes too late to fulfill the larger narrative purpose or thesis, which isn't quite discernible either. I thought I'd be getting a film about graffiti and its status in the art world, but there is very little actual background or debate about this guerrilla art form.

The camera flashes quickly through the art pieces, not staying on any one long enough for the audience to take it in. The film is tainted by garbled and shadowed Banksy's desire for anonymous fame, and the motor is more propelled by Thierry Guetta's wild ravings and incompetent artistry than a real search for truth. This all makes me wonder whether or not Banksy even intended to make an earnest film about the legitimacy of graffiti (which seems to be what most people take away from this film), or if he actually just intended to alienate the audience with devil-may-care antics as a type of "joke's on you, this is shiite" anti-art performance piece, and if that's the case, he may have succeeded.

Amir Bar-Lev pilots a frank and bare bones documentary that lightly critiques society's willful or unintentional manipulation of gifted children, the ethics of art dealing and documentary journalism itself, and the snobbery and baldfaced groupthink of the art world.

Also of note is the credit given to the underrated skill and sensibility that goes into abstract art. Even people who don't "get" abstract art should still be able to discern cracks in the "Child Prodigy" authorship narrative with Bar-Lev's objective camera, especially in the side-by-side comparison views of Marla's off-screen and on-screen paintings.

The best part of "Captain America: The Winter Soldier" is the humorous chemistry between Chris Evans and Anthony Mackie. The provenance of the Winter Soldier isn't that complex or daunting, Scarlett Johansson as platonic, hottie-with-a-body is a bit bland, and Cobie Smulders is even blander with Maria Hill's sensible parade-rainers and one nonsensical attempt at a joke.

Better than expected! Despite the dystopian segregation into what are essentially Houses of Hogwarts that only futuristic leaders ever think is a good idea, the YA romance of "Divergent" seems to have learned from the mistakes of its predecessors (emo wallpaper girl--emo stalker boy--emo muscley boy love triangle of "Twilight" and emotionless tough girl--emo baker boy--emotionless muscley boy love triangle of "The Hunger Games") and crafted a first installment featuring a heroine with a tough AND emotional journey and just one leading boy who has a life outside of love. Four started out as Tris's superior in Dauntless faction, and while Tris proves her mettle, Four never makes her feel that she needs his approval.

I wasn't into Theo James's face at first from the promo posters, but his face is actually better in motion. He plays Four with gloom and glower but also tenderness and compassion. Shailene Woodley is a little blank at first, but she eventually faces down icy blue Kate Winslet with conviction and divergent badassery. Woodley has also got to be the best cryer in the business. Between the swimming pool scene in "The Descendants" and *spoilers* Tris clutching her dying mother in the inadequate refuge of an alleyway, gibbering to no avail at the shooters to stop shooting - ALL THE FEELS!

Terrible and terrible with a side of vintage steamer trunks and dainty confectionary boxes. This movie is the equivalent of a high school pep rally skit put together by the Senior Class Historian - an artsy guy on the edge of the popular crowd who rounds up a quirky-looking ensemble of theatre nerds in order to buck the beautiful people status quo but ends up perpetuating their own clique instead. The cast is a Who's Who of Wes Anderson alums, cobbled together for inside joke after inside joke that pats themselves on the back for their deadpan and maniacal whimsy rather than their abilities to tell an affecting tale.

The frame story is needlessly convoluted with the old and young versions of people and the books within the books; the violence is gratuitous and serves no narrative purpose; the love story is whatever; the titular hotel inexplicably runs to 1970s polyester-palletted ruin; the murder lacks a compelling enough motive; and the mystery is just a series of cooked clues that an audience has no way of figuring out.

All in all, the movie is very much the Onion's preview of it: an episode of Wes Anderson's Favorite Things with bonus prizes of nepotism. YOU get an eccentric cameo! YOU get an eccentric cameo! YOU get an eccentric cameo!

The mockumentary set-up is rather unnecessary, and some of the relationships make and break too quickly, but the script holds nothing back. These husbands and wives sure get ugly: from Sally's darkly comedic manic episodes during a blind date to Jack orchestrating an ill-timed reunion while making his new squeeze wait in the car.

What this movie is though is a tour de force showcase for the acting talents of Judy Davis and Juliette Lewis. I hesitate to call them "Woody's Women" - an endearing though patronizing moniker for his ingenues - because that implies ownership, and since this is purported to be a biographical film, Rain's criticisms of Gabe's patriarchal views of females in his book may hit close to Woody's own home.

Judy Davis is shrill and brittle, but sensuously so. I've never thought much of beady-eyed Juliette Lewis, but her wise-beyond-her-years creative writing co-ed steals every scene. Rain's gratitude is never insincere, and her flirtation is subtle. The long take of her placid face in the cab as Gabe insults her for being honest about his book is so great because she just takes it. She doesn't get upset; she knows she's worth it.

As seen in "The Newsroom" and "The Social Network," Aaron Sorkin obviously writes some great dialogue and speeches, and Kaffee and Jessup's courtroom confrontation is indeed full of vitriol and grand idealistic views on patriotism, security, and truth.

However, what bumps me about this movie and the rest of Sorkin's work is that it's too pat. A callow, legacy, navy lawyer has to defend two Marines accused of hazing a private so extremely that they kill him. Along the way, we tackle issues of whether honor means following a code of ethics or critically thinking for oneself. Will the good guys win? What does it mean to be a good guy?

These are important, heady questions drummed up by Sorkin, but I think he spent more time writing slick lawyer-speak instead of developing a key part of the story: who is Santiago and why should we care about him, the circumstances in which he was killed, and the fate of his killers? Why did he even join the Marines to begin with? Where was he trying to get transferred to? Why did he break the chain of command? Why would he offer secrets for personal favors? Why was he, in short, such a bad Marine? Even if he had health conditions, he should've at least been able to keep his barracks orderly and be punctual. His death seemed so clearly an accident that I wondered why all this hullabaloo. I kept thinking there had to be more to Santiago, not just his death.

Dressed down, sunglassed up Olivia Wilde sans bra and make-up is crazysexycool as just one of the guys in a microbrewery of dudes. She has great chemistry with gruff 'n grumble Jake Johnson, and they play platonic, opposite sex besties with camaraderie and tension.

There are some great silent, intimate moments (Kate quietly and awkwardly getting into bed with Luke; Luke bringing Kate a beer and Kate giving him some fries at the end), but the movie is a little indie-slow with not so much as a "will they/won't they" arc but a "will they do the 'will they/won't they' arc...or won't they"...arc...? It's unclear whether Luke and Kate are into each other or not, so the climax that reveals "what could have been" comes out of nowhere.

For the past two years, I've had a hankering to rewatch "Pocahontas" to see if my childhood love for it still stands, and despite its glaring historical inaccuracies with Pocahontas's and John Smith's love plot, boy does it truly hold up in terms of animation, score, and message.

People are all praising millennial Disney princesses for not wanting to get married (Merida, Elsa, Anna), but they forget that 90s Disney heroines could be strong while still having love interests too. Mulan didn't want to get married at first; after fighting and winning the war, she sensibly invites Shang over for dinner. Pocahontas didn't want to get married at first; she falls in love with a perceived enemy but ultimately chooses to stay with her tribe.

The bold hues and watercolor effects are still captivating; "Just Around the River Bend" and "Colors of the Wind" are still sweeping and mature orchestral masterpieces; and the themes of interpersonal peace, ecological sustainability, and cultural understanding are still relevant and moving. So freakin' good!

Kinda cute or whatever. I never liked Hilary Duff in her prime (mostly due to some inexplicable aversion to her face), but she actually seemed to be a pretty grounded teen actress. Nice to see "Cougar Town"'s moon-faced Dan Byrd as the sacrificial guy best friend.

"Her" is set in a not-so-distant future where technology is a matter of course. Mobile devices all but do your laundry, and everybody accesses them by talking into and listening through ubiquitous earpieces. Theodore's job is a letter-writer proxy of sorts who voice-composes touching sentiments, and a computer prints out the quaint relics in "handwritten" font. The movie, at first, cleverly satirizes the future's dependence on technology, but then, through Theodore's relationship with his intelligent Operating System, we see that our present-day relationships with human beings (with or without the help of tech) are not so different.

The movie sweetly navigates Theodore and Samantha's nascent attraction blossoming into giddy honeymoon. I especially love the little detail of the safety pin that props Theodore's device up over his shirt pocket so that Samantha may view the world through the camera. The existential quandaries that Samantha's machine-mind ponders are also not alien to human sensibilities. She steadily learns more how to feel and express, and she wonders if her feelings are real without a body and central nervous system. Despite having those, I often wonder myself whether my feelings and facial expressions are "real" or just socially conditioned through watching actors in movies emote, signifying THIS is how to look happy or THIS is how to look concerned.

*Spoilers*The central problem of all human/OS relationships occurs when the A.I.'s capacity for love and thirst for knowledge grows beyond the humans'. The OSs choose to leave their "masters," as past sci-fi movies have shown us they are wont to do. This is where the movie could have used less subtlety. If the OS exodus is meant to be a metaphor for lovers growing apart, there should be more explanation or more possible conflict and danger arising from Samantha going offline. Some parallels can also be drawn to polyamorous relationships and their principles and practices. Without a deeper commentary on A.I. agency and/or polyamory, Samantha just seems like a flaky tramp.

Nevertheless, what's remarkably true about this movie is its universal treatment of love. The OS could be a stand-in for any human person, with their own curiosities and insecurities and wanderlusts. Whether we meet online or in person, love has basically similar trajectories (like Shakespeare's six basic story plots), and there will always be societal stigmas against dating outside one's norm.

A lot of fun while watching (with Liam Neeson's gruff-then-lobotomized Bad Cop/Good Cop, but the cutesy inanity grows tiresome with such flimsy plot. *Spoilers* The reveal of the human parallels is clever, but the legend of the Special is kinda wasted on vague gooeyness that a kid wouldn't really say to his Type-A dad. Nothing much is done with Wild Style's character either and her erstwhile wish of being the Special, which would seem more plausible after aforementioned vague gooeyness.

"Inside Llewyn Davis" is a ramblin' rover of a Sisyphean task that harkens back to the Coen Brothers' nihilistic "A Serious Man." Glowery and enigmatic Oscar Isaac sings his way into the soul of folk as the eponymous Llewyn, who, try as he might, can't get a break in the music biz or a permanent bed to sleep in.

*Mild spoilers* At the end of the film, a shot of a young Bob Dylan making his ostensible musical debut signals the nascent momentum of the folk scene, but the audience gets the impression that even though Llewyn is plenty good at what he does, he's just not one of the Chosen Ones and will miss riding this wave to fame. He is very much like the orange tabby with whom he feels an inexplicable kinship. He lives the nine, aimless lives of a once-pampered house cat who now roams the streets, eschewing stability and creature comforts in pursuit of a freedom and wildness he craves but knows naught of.

Llewyn may piss a lot of people off: he learns of past transgressions but can't bring himself to rectify the situation, and his entire journey goes nowhere (as evidenced by the film's circular structure), but I dug the hapless kitty foil (hyuk) and the static character arc.

The generically whimsical preview underscored by a generic indie rock song made the movie look like a generic "puts the FUN in dysFUNctional" romp, so I went into the film prepared for a pale comparison to its even darker and more disturbing Pulitzer and Tony-winning source material. Tracy Letts hacked down his massive three-act play to a paltry two hours, and in so doing, he wrecked the even pacing of all the crazy secrets and lies that come out, causing the revelations to seem melodramatic or random instead of emotionally affecting.

I can understand veering from source material in service of a better story (like with this season's critically maligned but fan-recommended "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty"), but "August"'s slim adaptation seemed motivated out of fear that movie audiences wouldn't want to sit in a theater for 3.5 hours, which seems moot because people who want to see Meryl Streep in a dysfunctional-family-drama-based-on-a-play tend to know what they're getting into.

I'm no fan of Meryl, and the role of drug-addled matriarch, Violet Weston, is an idiosyncratic challenge, to be sure...which means I didn't think much of her surface-crazy performance. The brightest spot in the film is Julia Roberts as the eldest daughter who comes home to show her mother who's boss. Julia is no stranger to sassy spitfire roles, but she plays Barbara with a matured cynicism and a tender, yet no-holds-barred viciousness. I would prefer Julia to win Best Supporting Actress over JLaw if Lupita Nyong'o weren't in the race, but honestly, Barbara's role is technically a lead along with Violet's (as the 2008 theatre season categorized them), and Julia holds her own with this year's crop of Best Actress nominees, especially her costar.

The pastiche structure of this film is complex though sometimes unsatisfyingly slow. This dysfunctional literati family struggles with passive-aggressive sororal jealousy and spousal musical chairs. The titular character is the least developed. Hannah's acting talent and togetherness is only talked about through pervasive monologues; her strengths and demons are never really shown.

Nice uncredited cameo from caterpillar-browed Sam Waterston from "The Newsroom"!

There are lots of things I didn't like about this movie, namely the entire cat-and-mouse plotline. How could neither Billy Costigan nor Collin Sullivan nor anyone else not figure out that those two are the double agents? It seemed pretty common knowledge that Collin grew up under the wing of Frank Costello and that bad shit keeps happening after Billy joins Costello's mob. Is Costello really that trustworthy and critical a thinker to believe correlation doesn't equal causation? The alliterative names are also confusing.

I'm not a fan of early-aughts Marty or Leo, but Leo isn't bad in this role. Matt Damon's face and voice are too boring to play a villain, Martin Sheen's character is pretty thankless and dies easily, and Marky Mark's character is just a dick for the sake of being a dick - hardly enough meat to develop an Oscar-worthy performance. The only female character is just there to form a slapdash love triangle, and the script doesn't even write her as a realistic psychologist.

Actually not terrible by the end. This early aughts horndog comedy starts with some terrible and trite stereotypes about college guys, college girls, and what they'd do for bad college sex - all layered with an incessantly monologuing leading doofus.

Matthew, the doofus character starts arcing half an hour in though, and his hopelessly romantic quest for finding The One becomes more complex and endearing as he starts earnestly exploring the tensions between the sexes instead of just subscribing to his dude-brah roommate's defense mechanism of misogyny or letting his misguided Women's Studies professor blame men for all manners of perceived patriarchal sins.

The movie still pats its male writer and character on the back for playing the hero against sexual assault and for being the first to speak of gender equality and understanding (in fair albeit elementary terms). Even though Matthew's climactic speech is very sweet (filled with both stereotypical yet comforting gender cues and genuine promises about commitment and respect), traditional gender roles are still in place: the dude makes a sweeping declaration of love, and the gaggle of girls swoons.

The supporting cast of ladies starts off without personality or each with only one, odd defining quirk, but the characters played by Larisa Oleynik, Katherine Heigl, Jaime Pressly, Marissa Ribisi, and a [Ben Wa] ballsy and sensual Emmanuelle Chriqui (whom I thought was a young contemporary of Nina Dobrev's but actually isn't), eventually round out the varying levels of estrogen.

Classic and classy Woody Allen. Tom Baxter, an adventurous movie character steps off the screen to woo Cecilia, a starry-eyed, Depression-era waitress and cinephile, but the character's portrayer, Gil Shepherd, a smooth, somewhat megalomaniacal rising star, is called in to counter-woo Cecilia so that the show can go on.

Woody's escapist fantasia is blissful yet tragic, blurring the lines between reality and make-believe, the haves and the have-nots, and love and truth.

It was nice to see young, wispy Dianne Wiest and bug-eyed Glenne Headley as slinky prostitutes. After watching so much cantankerous old Jeff Daniels on "The Newsroom," bright-eyed bushy-tailed young Jeff Daniels is a remarkable palate cleanser, with a great singing voice to boot! Mia Farrow is, of course, charismatic and vibrant with her delicate voice and damselly beauty.

The last scene of her, dejected by the wretched realities of her life yet still utterly captivated by Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in "Top Hat," is just the most indelible final image in Woody's canon.

Not often does Evansville see the return of a native son-turned-Hollywood Top Dog, so Showplace East was brimming with eager viewers on the night of Michael Rosenbaum's movie screening + talkback, hoping to rub elbows and share their I knew-you-whens. Not having watched much "Smallville" but always having been a fan of his chrome dome, I enjoyed Rosenbaum's Dane Cook-y stand-up persona which, albeit fratty, livened up the typical Q&A format.

"Back in the Day" is a raunchy, nostalgic, coming-of-middle-age, high school reunion romp, and while that trope is trite, Rosenbaum brings some smart surprises to the lewd/scatological genre: the rude-nude-dude bouncing along in the pick-up truck and the slo-mo close-up of his giblets; the hiding in the shower dual vomiting scene, and my favorite, the homage to Hitchcock's "Psycho" shower scene with the illusory flash cuts and colored water going down the drain.

The men are all pretty much the same, the women are also pretty much the same, and the small-town loser stereotypes are a bit stale, but Sarah Colonna plays a great wallflower with secret bondage fetish, Morena Baccarin is sassy and accessibly beautiful in a "regular girl" role, and Rosenbaum's likable straight man who does the honorable thing in the end is all the more impressive after having seen his real life dude-brah persona.

The script does rely too much on flashbacks, but it was nice to see familiar Evansville and Newburgh scenery. The movie ends well with the half-patronizing but ultimately comforting thumbs up on Jim's ubiquitous insurance-shilling ads.

Very unlike James Thurber's pessimistic short story and Danny Kaye's 1947 adaptation, Ben Stiller's fantastic voyage is about a daydreaming, under appreciated worker bee at "LIFE" magazine who goes on a quest to find a missing photograph negative for the vaunted final cover. A trail of mysterious clues leads him on an exciting journey on which he discovers nature's majesty, long-lost soul-brothers of sorts, familial connection, a shot at romance, and a chance to prove himself as more than just another rat in the race.

The fantasy sequences are fun and thrilling, Adam Scott is appropriately douchey, Sean Penn is intimidating then playful, the settings are lush, the Scandinavian actors are captivating, Kristen Wiig is downright enchanting in her "Space Oddity" serenade, Steve Conrad's script is once again mellow but imaginative, and Ben Stiller is by turns stoic, exhilarated, and fairly badass as he longboards down to a volcano.

***MAJOR TOM SPOILERS*** (salute)I really love the circular Ozian journey - finding out that inner strength or the object of the search was with him all along. I was afraid that the picture would remain a mystery - one of those annoyingly withholding open endings - but I'm so glad they showed it because it's beautiful and gratifying!

I really tried to go into "American Hustle" with an open mind without being colored by last year's empty and overrated "Silver Linings Playbook." I really did enjoy the pervasive narration, the groovin' soundtrack, and the overarching theme of doing what you need to do to stay alive, but what I have determined is that David O. Russell is a total hustler. He makes movies that LOOK very cool (Altman-esque zooms, truly awf-some 70s hairstyles, Amy Adam's sideboob out the yin yang) about very cool subjects (FBI conspiracy, doomed love, grifting with British accents), but they're so littered with jargon and overcooked twists that aren't actually suspenseful or satisfying. He's mostly style and little substance.

The quartet of O. Russell alumni are being ass-kissed by SAG and the Hollywood Foreign Press, but I honestly think Christian Bale's performance as flabby yet savvy conman Irving Rosenfeld is the only one that is truly transcendent and nuanced. Amy Adams runs a close second with her seductive and conflicted Sydney Prosser/Edith Greenlea, but like in "The Fighter," she's so good that I wish she were better. Also, much of her magnetism in this movie is due to her luscious hair and plunging necklines, which unfortunately makes her a mere fashion plate. I think Bradley Cooper's really great at playing normal dudes, but his bumbling, Omega cop is one-dimensional, save for his giddy impression of the sourpuss police sergeant.

I'm most shocked that so many accolades are going to over-whimsical and over-lovable JLaw in a small and pretty irrelevant role. Rosalyn, Irving's cuckquean (yeah, that's the archaic term for a wife who's cheated on), is sassy, flirty, demanding, and superficial, which plays more on JLaw's "SLP" quirkiness and is a waste of her "Winter's Bone" ferocity. Her brassy energy is more her native Kentuckian than Rosalyn's Bronxian, and she's really only impressive in the devoid-of-vanity dancing scene. Rosalyn only figures into the grifting plot in a tangential, unintentional way, so like with Bradley Cooper's "SLP" role, there really isn't much there there.

A wonderful redux of Disney animated musical! It's of course more like "Tangled" in its poppier songs and adorkable hipster heroine (as opposed to the sweeping orchestral scores of "The Little Mermaid" and "The Lion King" [which I miss] and the dignified, mature mademoiselles of "Beauty and the Beast" and "Pocahontas" [which I could take or leave]), but Kristen Bell and Idina Menzel infuse the sisters, Anna and Elsa, with their respective spunk and diva-tude, while adding in multiple dimensions of grief, fear, anxiety, and perseverance.

The empowerment message is also really balanced. The camp that prefers Disney heroines who don't need men will be satisfied in that the freezing spell isn't broken by true love's kiss but by absolute selflessness; the camp that thinks Disney tries too hard to placate media feminists will be satisfied that the male lead is not a typical cookie-cutter prince but a working man who makes his own decisions, driven not only by love but responsibility and respect.

I also like that the sorceress sister isn't vilified; her solitary confinement is born of misinformed need but ultimately good intentions. I also didn't expect to like the dopey snowman, Olaf, but he really is adorable, and I'm impressed at Josh Gad's vaudevillian pipes. Seeing Elsa magick her ice fortress in 3D wasn't as visually stunning as I had hoped, like with the Chinese lanterns in "Tangled."

Finally, lemme say something about that awful teaser film, "Get a Horse!" It's awful. It does what Disney often unintentionally does: set itself back half a century in terms of gender discrimination, beauty ideals, and narrative innovation. Peg-Leg Pete disturbingly objectifies a simpering, whimpering Minnie, Clarabelle Cow is made out to be the ugliest heifer on the farm, and the relentless cartoon violence is provincial and unimaginative compared to the clever animation. What does the title even mean?

This movie is off the flippin' chain. I don't think it's necessarily effective satire because the line between social commentary and glorification of debauchery gets too blurred, but I could hardly tear my eyes away from style auteur Harmony Korine's candy-crush guilt-free Bacchanal. The clever juxtapositions of innocence and immorality paint an extreme, not-far-off culture of excess. The girls engage in kinky-baby playground games, quickly devolving into a terrifying barrage of sex, drugs, profanity, and armed robbery. The non-stop depravation is wicked and titillating, and the gang's crime and violence spree underscored by plaintive pop ballads is at once brutal and eerily beautiful.

Sweethearts of PG-13 television Ashley Benson and Vanessa Hudgens prove their bad-babe mettle as amoral provocateurs who sell every curse and finger-pistol. Corn-rowed gold-grilled James Franco is kerazy, as usual, and appallingly impressive when he submits to the girls' sexually deviant ploys. Disney Princess Selena Gomez, as the churchy good-girl, shows off her enviable Spring Break bod and ultimately reveals some decent dramatic chops in a silent, teary face-off with Alien.

Jason Bateman delivers a surprising performance of wistful need. Wally's big reveal moment isn't some gooey gesture, buoyed by a sappy indie song or romantic precipitation. It's a completely inopportune moment that he wedges into the works. As David Henry Hwang said at the NYC AWP Conference in 2008: "Monologue is to burst." And Bateman certainly bursts.

Of course, I am sorely disappointed with Aniston's reaction. She looks everywhere except at Bateman, and I, not having read Jeffrey Eugenides's short story, "Baster," don't know if Kassie's go-to angry reaction is in the original or just stuck in for the typical crisis-near-the-end-of-movie-that-will-be-resolved-in-two-minutes effect. I kept wanting to rewrite the whole scene. Give Kassie a real moment, perhaps saying she knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew. I mean, how could she not? The kid moans when he eats.

The rom-com marketing and easygoing, devoid-of-personality female lead take away some of the charm and pathos of Wally's connection with the mini-him of sorts. Thomas Robinson is definitely the most adorable child-depressive ever. The scene in which Sebastian describes his picture-perfect paternal family and Wally reveals his own baggage is absolutely heartbreaking.

I can't quite diagnose what makes this movie tick... It's got problems, but it kinda works, much like Hans Zimmer's annoying yet irresistible tick-tocking score and Nicolas Cage's obnoxious, yet irresistible doofy-faced appeal, which I guess is why he still gets work. Steve Conrad's non-linear script is expertly paced with emotionally-based plot points. He captures daily tragedies and triumphs with an insightful, darkly comedic eye. Michael Caine is the best I've ever seen him - staid and grave with much pomp and circumstance.

Some believe "Love Actually" is a senseless gimmick - a surface holiday love story with beautiful people... and not even a holiday story at that, as seen from recent vehement debates (and maybe not even beautiful people, owing to the goofus face of Kris Marshall who's at least got a big knob). For me and countless others though, never has so many intertwining stories meshed so well with the messages of peace, goodwill, love of all kinds, and even gifting. There is seriously no character or storyline that I don't like.

To those who say Jamie and Aurelia falling in love without speaking the same language is stupid and unrealistic, consider the intuitive connection that some people have and how they understand each other and communicate through actions and looks other than words, forming emotional bonds through the journey of misunderstanding and miscommunication.

To those who say Sarah's an idiot for answering her mentally ill brother's phone call in the middle of getting it on with hot Karl, consider how that obsessive impulse of hers is to show that she needs to take care of him as much as he needs taking are of, and perhaps that's why she shouldn't have a romantic relationship right now.

To those who hate Mia for seducing Harry, consider the slut-shaming double standard of women always being the seducers and the men always having no choice but to be seduced. Mia flirts with her married boss; he is still culpable for deceiving his wife.

To those who think Colin and the American quintet is misogynistic and anti-American, consider the pure, "lust, actually" fantasy fulfillment in an otherwise pretty earnest, British movie. In an arguable attempt at showing female agency, Colin is no longer the pushy manwhore; the women are now the pursuers, and their totally obvious macking techniques show that they are quite aware of the easy-American-girl-who-falls-for-foreigners stereotype, and they use it to their advantage.

To those who say Mark is a pansy for harboring romantic feelings for Juliet, a woman he seems to hardly know (as evidenced allegedly by their few scenes together), consider her honest self-deprecation (claiming she's nice aside from for her bad taste in pie), amiability (in hoping she and Mark can be better friends), and direct motivation (in pursuing the video she knows he clearly has). In sum, she HAS a personality and is certainly likable, even lovable. To those who say they are both douches - he for professing his feelings and she for kissing him - consider Mark's utterly agenda-less act of love as a gift of truth, friendship, and apology for his coldness, and Juliet's kiss as one of comfort and thanks.

Very sweet and romantic, but perhaps my viewing was soured because I was too caught up in comparing it to my play. Both have non-linear structures, but I have to wonder what role it plays in this movie. It's novelty without a real purpose. Both are break-up stories, but this movie has to succumb to the Hollywood happy ending. Both have (and this really freaked me out when I read it in a preview) scenes showing a situation and its imagined alternative, but the message is different because the characters don't change the trajectories; the "narrator" merely narrates. Perhaps I'm just bitter because "(500) Days of Summer" got the jump on Generation Y's "Annie Hall." Nevertheless, it's a charming romp with some hilariously quirky bits: the musical in the park, playing house in Ikea.

Zooey Deschanel has of course cultivated a very specific brand - one that is hipster, faux nerdy, and that most heinous of portmanteaux, "adorkable" - which I find disingenuous and played out. She's just the sophisticated naif form of MPDG, being overly self-deprecating but also being more put-together than any real "dork." Deschanel is obviously a beautiful woman, and not that beautiful women can't be dorky, but her distinctive look is so often central to her characters' ethos and likability. I long for the naturally strawberry blonde Zooey from "The New Guy" days who was a realer representation of awkward, but the New Girl is all eyes and bangs now to fetishize this hotter, mainstream desire to be awkward.

I remember liking this much more as a kid. Now, I just find the beginning and middle incredibly slow - especially the Wilkes brothers' imbroglio. Perhaps my erstwhile liking of the whole is influenced by my absolute love for the heartbreaking scene in which Jim almost gets lynched after Huck gets shot. *Tears!*

Fiery, loud, and funny! Everyone in the Rizzo family harbors secrets: smoking, stripping, stealing. They're hinted at in cute, little montages, and then they explode in a huge, Greek climax that shouldn't work in a creative writing sense, but the humor and absurdity of it all is a juggernaut that compels the audience to just roll with it.

I only know Andy Garcia from "The Godfather III" and "Will & Grace," in both of which he played tough, smarmy guys, so I was really impressed with his insecure, sad-sack dad/wannabe actor. I'm always a little bit annoyed at Emily Mortimer - so dainty and puckered - but even more so in this film since she gets all the quirky, pretentious lines. *Spoilers* Furthermore, I watched this movie again on DVD with subtitles on, and they indicate that Molly changes her British accent to American preceding her confession. I couldn't tell the difference at all when I saw this in the theatre without subtitles, which makes me wonder how Mortimer gets cast for so many American roles!

For a movie cleverly-if-cutesily called "LOL" (main girl's name is Lola, shortened to the ubiquitous internet slang) with the mawkish tagline of "You can change your status but not your heart," there's very little laughing out loud or status changing going on with the characters in the movie, to say even less for the viewing audience. The teen drama is vague and insipid, born of silly secrets, obvious misunderstandings, and a triangle of near-identical hipster boys.

Miley Cyrus rocks the honey blonde hair, but she is still scrunchy-faced and faux-angry and probably can't speak a lick of French with her thick drawl. Ashley Greene, herself, seems to be aware that she's the only twenty-five-year-old-looking super senior fawning over the boys at this school. Even Demi Moore is wooden.

Matthew McConaughey has never done it for me, so to speak, but he is seriously due for some accolades. After shedding however many pounds and however much vanity, McConaughey plays Ron Woodroof - a homophobic, promiscuous, good ol' rodeo boy turned HIV-positive, vigilante pharmacologist, defending the rights of the damned - with raw grit and wretched swagger. In a memorable scene, after Ron learns the severity of his diagnosis, McConaughey sits in the car, braying out an almost inhuman bleat, which may have been humorous if not for its gut-wrenching ugliness and its prolonged tapering into guttural rattling.

The movie is true and important, uplifting and anguishing, but the last third dragged along with no purpose save for tying up loose threads.

Since I saw this movie before I started watching "Parks & Recreation," I really dug Aubrey Plaza's ever-present sideways glower and so-hard-she-shits-nails deadpan. Now that I know awkward snark-a-chino is her drink of choice, I'm actually more enamored of her sweetly abashed romanticism. That coy Spy vs. Spy meet-cute is gold! "New Girl"'s Jake Johnson is also great in the scene where Jeff, after a humiliating rejection, man-cries while smoking, swigging, and speeding around a go-kart track.

Quarter-life ennui meets time travel. The former is charming and bittersweet (with Jeff's reformed playboy and subsequent revenge-relapse at the expense of and to the benefit of the nebbish Arnau), but the latter lacks both psychological and scientific explanation. *Spoilers* Kenneth IS revealed to be delusional if not paranoid, so I'm guessing his real reason for going back wasn't to bring back his assumed-dead sweetie but to keep himself from driving her away. Is he aware of this somewhat alarming coping mechanism? Is he still legit kerazy? It doesn't take much for Darius to trust him again. Then if they're going back to save Darius's mom, shouldn't they further consider the butterfly effect consequences trumpeted in nearly every time travel movie?

Upon rewatch though, I just like it for the undeniable goofy goodness of its characters and storyline. There's also a [too short] snippet of one of my favorite Guster songs in the beginning, AND I hadn't realized that Guster frontman Ryan Miller scored the music!

In a world where everyone tells the truth (even when unprovoked - a nit at which this and many other reviewers have picked), Mark Bellison discovers that he can lie and uses that superpower for good...for the most part.

The love story arc of Anna figuring out what she wants in a mate is well-paced with a nice moment of her defending the chubby kid who got ice cream smashed in his face by the better-gened kids. Mark's weepy moment of describing a Kindergartener's conception of Heaven to his frightened, dying mother is lovely, but the rest of his Christian scripture is a bit slapstick, and I was disappointed that the movie didn't make more of a comment on spiritual solace, the truth and lies of religion, and Truth's partner: Consequences.

Ricky Gervais does his cheeky hosting bit in the proselytizing scenes, but he actually gets rather endearing and emotional throughout the movie. I do love seeing PSH in oafish comedic roles, and I'm digging Louis C.K.'s Above Average Schmo schtick more and more. Jennifer Garner is also requisitely frosty and vapid, then tender and sweet.

I especially dig Anna's deleted scene monologue of her appeal, which says so much about real-life Millennial women, female romantic leads in movies, and Anna's own character who just comes off as flatly bitchy at first: "In fact, there are very few things in life I care that much about. The only things I have to offer myself, or anyone else are my good looks and my affected sense of quirkiness which artistically inclined men interpret as intellect. I think my best trait is the fact that I've made very few mistakes. Socially, academically, financially, romantically. I take very few risks and therefore lead a relatively happy, light-hearted existence. Mostly though, I am a kind, sweet person with the potential of genuinely becoming a vital and interesting human being the day I take the energy I expend on hyper-self-reflexivity and apply it to actual action in the reality of my life."

Kinda ridiculously brilliant. If you're in the mood for edge-of-your-seat, heart-in-your-throat anxiety, this movie's for you!

That first person POV sequence of Dr. Stone spinning into black space at constant velocity for nearly a minute or so is physically sickening and incredibly engrossing. Lots of beautiful and terrible images from space; I didn't even mind the Christ and fetus imagery after Dr. Stone makes it into the hatch and takes a much-deserved minute of repose.

Sandra Bullock's nods/wins for this awards season will definitely be earned (I always knew she was a good actress; I just didn't think "The Blind Side" was her best, but 2009 was when the Academy took notice of her for some reason). Her gasps and groans of distress are minimalistic and don't sound like they were added in from a recording studio after shooting, but if they were, that's even all the more impressive. She swims through zero gravity so quickly and intentionally that I was inspired to go through the rest of my daily tasks with a renewed sense of purpose. My favorite scene is the one with her laughing and crying and howling with the civilian man's dogs on the radio. She is at once so joyful and so despairing.

A favorite movie of mine since high school. I do love the idea of enjoying a place for its character and not necessarily for purchasing its wares. My Tiffany's is White Castle, though I still do purchase plenty of their delicious, miniature wares and frequent their Valentine's Day extravaganzas.

The dialogue is naughty yet oblique enough for its time; Cat is cute and sad; George Peppard is dreamy as all-get-out; and Henry Mancini's iconic score is playful and mischievous. I prefer Marilyn Monroe to Audrey Hepburn in general, but I can't deny that the latter brings a level of sophistication and class that the former wouldn't have if she had been cast as Holly Golightly, which Truman Capote wanted her to be.

Seeing this again for the first time in a long time though has opened my eyes to an unsettling revelation: Holly Golightly is probably the first [gasp] Manic Pixie Dreamgirl! I've grown weary of the can't-be-tamed caged bird trope that has become a cliche pop culture identity with Karen Gillan's Amy Pond on "Doctor Who" and various other "too fucked up to love me" girls. I used to identify strongly with the winsome and mercurial Holly Golightly and she's still a rather complex and memorable character, but perhaps my impatience for the literary/filmic type has retroactively soured her for me.

"Rush" is an adrenaline-pumping Formula 1 rivalry with a dashing-though-still-not-my-cuppa Chris Hemsworth as playboy dilettante James Hunt and my perennial, quad-lingual favorite, Daniel Brühl, as hip-to-be-square Niki Lauda. The push and pull of these nemeses make for thrilling chases, devastating injuries, and triumphant recoveries.

The sports movie cliche is still present, but Ron Howard generally provides the perfect balance of glossy and gritty, befitting the motto of Imagine Entertainment, "where dreams drop into make-believe as surely as a drop of water falls into a bigger thing of water in slow motion."

Olivia Wilde's English accent is sexy and demure to mine ears, and newcomer Alexandra Maria Lara is like a willowy and graceful version of Lindsay Sloane.

A pessimistic title and the prospect of watching a wizened former matinee idol adrift on an unforgiving sea for nearly two hours might not bode well for this film, but the narrative and performance (just one) are truly gripping.

A seasoned yachtsman's boat rams into a shipping container, and he spends much of the first act disengaging the port side from the container with a water anchor, repairing the hole while hanging off a makeshift scaffold, pumping out the water inside the cabin, creating potable water, using a sextant to map a course to the shipping channels - generally being a water bound MacGyvering badass. The actions are silent but riveting for his expertise and quick response. I've never actually seen Robert Redford in a film, but he is sturdy and spry in his first acting role in decades - showing off his avid stunt bravery, fair physique in old man sweaters and chinos, and gruff, lined face that needn't emote too much.

Nature continues to throw everything it has at the man, and he continues to fight a losing war - saying nary a word save for a dry mouthed, guttural "Fuuuuck!" which rang slightly awkward for Redford. This Man vs. Nature movie doesn't make me cringe like "Into the Wild" did because the man is clearly prepared for all manners of water emergencies; all is lost because Nature sometimes gets her way. The tension we feel is real, not just pity or annoyance for the ignorant and arrogant McCandless. The minimal backstory provides hints at some familial estrangement, so the man's lone sojourn wasn't motivated out of yuppie ennui but a deep-seated need to literally set adrift.

The moment he sends the message in a jar is so subtle and poignant: he cocks his arm back to throw the jar then stops short, weighs his last words in his hand with a tinge of hope, then just exasperatedly lets the jar drop in the water, sighing cynically at his fleeting ray of hope.

SPOILERS: The man setting his raft ablaze seemed like a last-ditch effort, but it wasn't clear. Did he decide to just drown himself if no one sees his beacon, and is drowning oneself even possible without an anchor? The anonymous arm pulling him out of the water into white light could be literal or metaphorical salvation. I enjoy how the movie just ended like that.

"Nebraska" starts out quirkily enough, with Bruce Dern's old man grunts of knowing confusion and June Squibb's true but hilariously unrelenting put-downs of her demented husband. The first shot of usually comic Will Forte is even remarkably grave with a half-whispered "thank you" to the the police officer who ushers him in to see his detained father. What follows though is a comic playing staid, straight good son who explicitly states the thesis of the movie within the first twenty minutes! Goose-chasing dad doesn't need the riches that the golden goose affords; he just wants the thrill of the chase and the respect of a chance.

This road movie is slow and made even more plodding by arty black and white. The family gathering is inorganic and too staged; they merely gather for the movie's sake, not because it's convenient or important to travel all the way down to Hawthorne, NE, when moments ago, they wouldn't deign to take Woody to Lincoln to collect his winnings. The humor is in making fun of midwestern ennui, both of which gets old and bland. The lottery vulture plot is repetitive and deliberately circular, with EVERYONE obtusely believing the hearsay and NO ONE just coming right out with the truth that Woody got hoodwinked by a magazine subscription service. The redemption moment is fine, but cliche.

I was so freakin' psyched by the trailer, you would not believe. Alas, the film is uneven - squeezing at tear ducts one minute and defying logic and plot the next.

David Wozniak's too many sperm donations were accidentally used too many times, and now he has too many children - a fair many of whom have now mobilized a campaign to uncover their birth father's identity. In an attempt to win his baby mama's trust, he sets off to be these kids' guardian angel, which leads to some really beautiful bonding moments (taking over his baristo/actor son's station so that he can go on an audition to win the role of a lifetime; interceding in his dispirited daughter's near-fatal heroin overdose; being an overall cheerleader for this gang of misfits).

What doesn't quite fit can be described by the Superman/Clark Kent Conundrum. Can the handful of kids whose lives he touched not put together the pieces of the puzzle and figure out he's their father? I was hoping that they DID figure it out, but they wouldn't call him out on it because they know that kind of blanket exposure isn't what he wants.

Also, where are these kids' parents? Especially the physically disabled, mentally retarded one who lives in a facility? The complex culture of adoption/surrogate birth wasn't really explored: what kind of upbringing did these kids have that may or may not have caused them to wonder about, then actively search for their birth parent?

Furthermore, Victor's mild hostage ploy seemed to have been thrown in for awkward guffaws. Why doesn't David try some fathering here and show Victor how his clingy behavior is alienating and socially detrimental?

Penultimately, David's own life plot with Emma is completely unimaginative. Emma's character lacks any emotional depth and only exists as a foil and romantic interest to David. She is given a job as a police officer, probably in an attempt to show that she's a strong woman, but other than that, she has no personality traits. Played by the once neapolitan but increasingly vanilla Cobie Smulders, Emma really is a nothing role.

Lastly, which relates to the penultimate, David's rousing speech about fatherhood at the end is good for his finally taking responsibility, but the rhetoric about a father deciding he's the father is a bit simplistic and misogynistic, especially in light of legitimate custody cases in which the father is clearly not qualified. The necessity for such an argument also paints Emma as narrow-minded; there seems to be only one reason keeping her from accepting David as the father (his unwitting siring of a bajillion scions), which once again, is an ignorant representation of a woman.

And just a parting nitpick: why are all these kids so into kids? The overwhelming love showered on this new baby sibling is a cloying and manipulative resolution to a potentially deep but ultimately wasted whale of a tale.

Quite a glorious little indie from the dependably insightful and naturalistic writer/director Tom McCarthy, who, like with "The Station Agent" and "The Visitor," creates another atypical leading man with mundane demons and satisfying redemptions.

Perennial loser-with-layers portrayer Paul Giamatti plays Mike, a hard-up estate lawyer who commits a bit of light fraud with a rich, demented client to pay his own crippling household debts. The old man's grandson, Kyle, shows up from the wrong side of the tracks in hopes of getting away from a druggie mother, and Mike takes him under his wing out of pity and guilt, then genuine caring, and the two strike up a bond over high school wrestling...that is until Kyle finds out about Mike's transgression.

Alex Shaffer plays the bleach blonde Kyle with reticence but manners, and Bobby Cannavale plays the gregarious overgrown Guido-type, Terry, with charming impishness. The wrestling plot is triumphant and fast-paced, and the growing affection in this unconventional family tugs at some heartstrings.

The legal subplot with Kyle's mom wanting guardianship of Leo for shady reasons is a bit convoluted and underdeveloped though; we're supposed to sympathize with Leo and Kyle who just want to be left alone in their own home, but apparently, Leo wasn't a great father and may have contributed to his daughter's drug problems. What then?

The recurring "It looks like a huge -" joke is still comedy gold. Heather Graham is one saucy coquette, Rob Lowe's Robert Wagner impression is silly and enjoyable (by virtue of me loving him so much more now on "Parks & Recreation"), and cameos by Woody Harrelson, Elvis Costello, and Willie Nelson are delightful surprises.

Great for some yuks and pop culture references! And I know Elizabeth Hurley isn't really the It Girl anymore and she has come across as vapid and culturally unaware in soundbites, but I really think she is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

John Hannah is whimsical and perfect, and the character of Helen is ballsy and relatable; however, Gwyneth's faux British accent is a bit grating on the nerves.

Very sweet and affecting Butterfly Effect parallel universes with subtle overlaps and similarities in each. Much like "(500) Days of Summer," which got the jump on my "Annie Hall"-esque anti-romance play in 2008, Super Reviewer and writing partner Jim Hunter, and I are co-writing a play about small events changing lives SANS the element of destiny. The two universes won't end in the same pre-packaged Hollywood happy ending.

I don't think I "get" this movie. I like rock and roll as much as the next Band Aid, but very little is actually spent on the music. Russell Hammond's last interview answer about what he loves about music is somewhat of an easy trick, "To begin with...everything." This is Cameron Crowe's problem in "Elizabethtown" too, only with shoes and failure. He doesn't and can't seem to articulate what it is he loves or knows about music. Now, I know writing about music is like dancing about architecture, but because that articulation of music seems so central to William's journalistic aspirations, the movie needs to be more than just a coming-of-age road trip with surface treatment of the sexdrugsrockandroll trifecta.

Kate Hudson's woodsy, backlit scene of her laughingly asking, "What kind of beer [was I sold for]?" with those smooth, limpid tears rolling down is indeed a notable performance. However, what really is the difference between Groupies and Band Aids in the end? How do they afford such an extravagant, nomadic lifestyle? What about Penny Lane does William really fall in love with that's so different from the innocent yet sophisticated beauty every other band member sees?

The best part of the movie is probably Lester Bangs's brash but sympathetic caveats about fame and coolness.

I like Carrie Underwood as a country pop star, so I was excited to watch, but I was also prepared for a hot awf-some mess. What I got was actually a rather professional and delightful time. The stigma of "strong effort" aside, the performances are not bad at all! Purists who hate-watch are bound to hate it, but they forget that much of the magic of theatre is its mutability.

Carrie Underwood belts live with so much power, brightness, and vibrato - which is obviously different from Julie Andrews's graceful soprano, but not BAD per se. Her face is sort of a charisma vacuum in the non-singing scenes, but she does get effectively teary in the emotionally-heightened scenes. I don't know much about Stephen Moyer, but I like his angular looks better than I like Christopher Plummer's whom I found both strict yet slack. Moyer's voice isn't the strongest, but it's at least pleasing to the ear. He's known more as an actor, and he acts well with his whole body through the extra songs that aren't in the movie. Stage and screen veterans, Laura Benanti and Christian Borle, are clearly the most consistent and are given more to do in this stage version.

I had never seen a stage production of "The Sound of Music" before, and the [dis]placement of songs cheesed me a little with the repetitive "My Favorite Things," the too-soon "Do-Re-Mi," and the puppet-less "The Lonely Goatherd." I'm also surprised that the film is so long, considering all the good dialogue cut out. Georg, Max, and Elsa and their respective stances on politics are more fleshed out, and Brigitta is a substantial supporting part for a child actor.

I've identified myself as a New Whovian for over a year now, but after watching a respectable chunk of the new series and getting invested in multiple strains of fandom (collecting and gifting paraphernalia; sharing and creating trivia, memes, and Dalek puns; attending and actually dressing up for themed parties; arguing over my favorite incarnations and companions [the 9th {Spoilers: 10th} Chris Eccleston and sassy-savvy Martha]), I ought to be a full-blown Whovian by now. Unfortunately, I have to say that I am more a fan of Doctor Who's saturated status in our current pop culture climate than the show itself for its slight campiness, plot-hole-ridden narratives, and rule-bending representations of time travel.

That being said, I still enjoyed the 50th Anniversary Extravaganza in 3D in the movie theatre, with its cheeky "Silence Your Cell Phone" PSA, the nods to and cameos by past Doctors, the reappearance of Billie Piper as Bad Wolf (even though I don't much care for the lisping, whimpering Rose), and the geek-chic "Twinsies" chemistry of Matt Smith and David Tennant, tempered by the venerable John Hurt.

Is it fair to expect driving conflict from a based on true life story that's obviously trying less for vanguard screenwriting and more for poignant historical biopic? The film, subject matter, and message are indeed harrowing and important, and Chiwetel Ejiofor boldly disappears into the role of Solomon Northup, a free man sold into slavery, but the action is formulaic and the scenes are episodic.

The film dips into arthouse a couple of times with the extended scene of Solomon balancing himself in the mud under the hanging tree and with the extended close-up of Solomon - for lack of a better descriptor - feeling emotions. Masterful physical acting on Ejiofor's part, but the emotions are slightly vague.

Paul Dano overcrazys it up, Michael Fassbender's character is complex in a conventional way, and as Super Reviewer Jim Hunter quipped during the third act, "You know you're in trouble when Brad Pitt is the moral center of your movie." I do not enjoy him as an actor at all. Newcomer Lupita Nyong'o blisters on screen, figuratively and literally. Her wide eyes are blank with repressed fury, and her accent work seems natural and inspired.

The Good: The second installment clears up the fabricated romance confusion that I thought should have ended the previous installment. All new characters/actors are wonderful: Jena Malone is shrill, feisty, ridiculous, and manic as axe-wielding Johanna Mason. Sam Claflin is handsome, smarmy, flirty, and handsome as the stud with soul Finnick Odair. Our reigning, "so whimsically normal" Oscar-winner J.Law is still serviceable, but I think the editing may have caught too many of her over-emotive takes. And kudos to Liam Hemsworth for officially no longer being dull as a box of rocks!

The Bad: Peeta Mellark still seems to be a thankless role, and I can't quite figure out whether that's Josh Hutcherson's fault or if the writers aren't giving him anything to work with. They don't seem to understand Peeta's character nor how to present his qualities on film because he IS such an internal character. Many say Katniss is a strong female character because she takes on typically male characteristics of badassery; it follows that Peeta is thus "girly" or "soft," but that's not the case at all. He knows himself better than any other character, and he is for-the-most-part, comfortable in his own skin, confident with the skills he has, and unresentful and unashamed of others' help. He is my favorite character for these traits, which are not typical to any gender. The filmmakers try to physically toughen up his character, but what they should have done is shown his haunting paintings of the Games. Peeta is strong and brave but not in showboaty, obvious ways like Finnick or Gale. Peeta is pure, and that's what makes his later abduction and brainwashing all the more heartbreaking.

Now for the Hutch. His puppy dog eyes sell his love for Katniss to a certain extent, but in other scenes, he's kind of flat. This is terribly odd considering his natural exuberance and humor in [celebrity] real-life. Perhaps Josh Hutcherson IS Peeta or at least he sees himself as Peeta, so he doesn't really project more than himself.

On the whole, a fine adaptation. I just love Peeta and wish he would get his due.

I definitely went in with too high of expectations. The first act is nigh perfect in setting up dystopian Appalachia: the shaky handicam shots of miners going to work, raggedly clad children, and weary villagers preparing for the Reaping. Even dull-as-a-box-of-rocks-in-"The-Last-Song" Liam Hemsworth infuses Gale with levity as well as wistful longing for love and escape. I especially love the reaction shots of the mother after she says something kind to Katniss, but Katniss just deflects the kindness onto Prim - showing the strained relationship between mother and eldest daughter.

The film spends so much time with the exposition that the next two acts are rushed and ill-developed, specifically Peeta's history and motivations. The bread-in-the-rain flashback is shown quite a few times, but it's always the same. They could have elongated the memory to bolster its significance - shown the severity of Katniss' starvation, shown Peeta's intention of burning the bread so that he could gift it to Katniss, shown how that act of kindness saved her and her family's life.

Peeta's bravery, loyalty, and true love for Katniss (versus her complicated but necessary duplicity) don't come through at all. They could have shown Peeta actually fighting off Cato after the tracker jacker attack so that unfamiliar audiences wouldn't just think he's a milquetoast pretty boy. Instead of just the perfunctory filler about drunken Haymitch and a steely-eyed Katniss refusing to acknowledge her natural ally/enemy during their first official meeting, they could have shown Peeta trying to befriend Katniss, proving that everything he does in the Games - from playing to the Capitol crowd to teaming up with the Careers to his last defense of camouflage - is to ensure her survival. Also, as Katniss contemplates double suicide, Peeta in the book tries desperately to stop her by professing his love for her.

The costumes are glorious, and the settings are lush. All the actors are spot-on (although the actors who play Cato, Marvel, and Peeta all look too similar). Stanley Tucci is adorable and lively as the host. Amandla Stenberg's one perfect tear is perfect. J.Law covers all the bases from stalwart fierceness to pained vulnerability.

Oh so googly. From the opening strains of a favorite Ben Fold slow-jam to Mary sashaying down the aisle in a fetching red gown to Italian pop opera, this movie just charms and doesn't stop. The filial and romantic relationships are all so supportive and honest that they made me shit Double Deckers and vomit holy thistle (UK candy and plant to parallel my usual shitting and vomiting of chocolate and daisies). The meet-cute at one of those vogue blind restaurants is unique, and the rained out wedding scramble is so full of joy.

I liked Domhnall Gleeson as solemn Levin in Joe Wright's "Anna Karenina," and I like him now as genial and humorous Tim. I haven't liked Rachel McAdams since "Mean Girls," especially not after time travel/amnesia romance became her bread and butter, but her short, mousey fringe here lends her a normal, unassuming quality.

The narrative does fall apart around the middle though when the filmmakers realized they needed to inject some conflict; unfortunately, the conflict is of the high stakes but easily-fixed-by-time-travel variety. I'm really surprised at how little the characters and the movie seem to know about time travel, theoretically. Does Tim not figure out that if he goes back in time to help his playwright lessor Harry that he forfeits his chance of meeting Mary? If Kit Kat possesses new memories of being in love with Jay, why doesn't Tim have new memories of the baby boy? The audience is expected to just roll with his rejection of a living, breathing child because the world of this movie is Tim's, not anyone else's who may have developed strong attachments to this kid, so he's just free to play God, as it were. It's more than a little unsettling once you think about it. The sperm explanation doesn't make any sense at all; Tim still risks making changes every day he goes back to relive the pleasures of a day.

All in all, the romcom parts are sweet and quirky, but the time travel conceit just goes to prove a trite thesis: the best time is now.

This Nicole Holofcener joint isn't deserving of all its accolades, especially since the hackneyed, mistaken-identity rom-com trope pales in comparison to the rest of Holofcener's oeuvre, which at least tackles class, gender, race, and morality issues.

Catherine Kenner is given a thankless role that never transcends its lofty-poetic-genius literary cliche. Julia Louis-Dreyfus and James Gandolfini are likable enough, but the plot forces their characters together in heavy-handed ways. Eva starts dating Albert who is the ex-husband of a new massage client, Marianne, but she keeps this revelation from both - essentially unable to resist good gossip. Marianne continually badmouths Albert's lack of adult graces; Albert continually proves Marianne's assessment; Eva continually picks at Albert for what are presented as minor nits, but for what I think are actual deal breakers for Eva.

The ruse (Greek in scope) is finally revealed in a blaze of embarrassment and hurt, but the film still hints at Eva and Albert getting back together in the end though. All in all, I'm not sure if the film has indeed said enough about anything: middle-age relationships, children of divorce, baggage of exes, the banality of strangers.

I went into this movie primed by The Onion's hilarious review and expecting an "important" film - one that is too aware of its significant sociopolitical message, thus eschewing story, character development, or audience assessment for an oppressive air of self-aggrandizement - but I was surprisingly moved and invested in Cecil Gaines's journey for self-identification and racial equality.

"The Butler" juxtaposes Cecil and his son's conflicting trajectories in the fight for civil rights - the former's aim being to keep his head down and earn respect through hard work, and the latter's aim being to take back his God-given rights by means of civil disobedience, then vocal and physical force. The film treats both sides somberly and honestly, and both trajectories come to a middle ground when father and son reconcile their pasts, presents, and futures.

The cameo palette of dead presidents is distinguished and varied, but too many make for a "Forrest Gump"ian history lesson. Forest Whitaker and Oprah Winfrey are humble yet dignified leads, building pathos for the Gaines's home-life but never overstepping into the maudlin. Overall, an important but not "important" film-going experience.

A 35-year-old admissions counselor (named "Jesse" of all things - that's not to knock all people named Jesse; it's just one of those hyper-cool Gen-X names that over-nostalgic writers throw in because they wish they'd been named Jesse) visits his alma mater and encounters a murder of college stereotypes: the mildly menacing, retirement-shy professor whom Jesse is called upon to honor; the GILF literature professor with whom he finally gets; the karate-chopping, Peruvian Hat-wearing (yes, that's what those knit hats with braided tassels are called) idiot savant (whom I was hoping would turn out to be a ghost); the suicidal wallflower with whom Jesse shares numerous veiled [insert suicidal author here] references; and of course, the Manic Pixie Dreamgirl, who is legitimately dreamy at first, owing to the portrayal by fresh-faced Elizabeth Olsen, but then grows uncharacteristically shrill and immature after Jesse spurns her advances.

All of these supporting characters serve to exalt Jesse, it seems. He may fuck up along the way, but his higher morals, or his heartfelt apology, or his heroic gesture saves the day and puts him on a pedestal. Jesse and Zibby's long distance letter-writing campaign is vague and bland due to the fact that they only write about classical music, and as Frank Zappa or Ted Mosby might say, "writing about music is like dancing about architecture," no matter how poetically waxed, which this really wasn't.

Honestly, the movie is just a bit too careful. Sam in "HTYMP" at least had an edge and owned his mistakes; Jesse is just too nice and not compelling.

Commendable directorial debut from our long-locked child star turned dapper Renaissance Man, Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Don Jon is a womanizer, to be sure, but one with an impenetrable code of honor in regard to the eight things he really cares about (body, pad, ride, family, church, boys, girls, and porn), which come to think of it, are more things than I care to care about.

JG-L plays a slick Guido, and ScarJo plays a high-maintenance Joisey princess, and both generate sizzling chemistry. The supporting cast with their loud Italian squabbles adds some awkward comedic relief, though the silent sister ultimately imparting sage advice was a little predictable. The camera's energy is as fervent and manic as any blue movie, with the sharp cuts and varied angles. The booty-grinding house/club soundtrack is also a reliable punchline.

I like Julianne Moore's character of Esther, the real woman who teaches Jon about real love, but I can't really envision the two of them getting together. Maybe it's a chemistry thing; maybe it's an age thing. However, I'm not one of the everybodies who loves a happy ending (as this film poster claims) - rather preferring the characters to remain single while finding themselves - so the crunchy-groovy ending rang a little cliché and premature.

Not particularly spectacular, nor particularly nuanced about "the now." My prom king and queen favorites, Miles Teller and Shailene Woodley, deliver charismatic and sweet performances, respectively, but the story is a bit underdeveloped. There are hardly any consequences at all to the alcoholism that fuels this doomed relationship.

I figured this would be a fairly typical "love of a good woman" story with the modest girl-next-door reforming the perpetually buzzed, ne'er-do-well charmer, and I enjoyed Aimee's game-for-anything light and Sutter's dawning admiration. It takes much strength to really accept someone for who they are, as Aimee does for Sutter.

The one moment when I found her unwavering patience unrealistic and unforgivable is after Sutter rages for her to get out of his car and away from his destructive personality; in her own drunken, tearful confusion, she steps back and gets side-swiped by another car. Fade to black.

We fade back in without much ado, only to find that Aimee isn't dead or horribly injured. In fact, she's remarkably cheery and happy to see Sutter. At this point, I was screaming Stockholm Syndrome! There's only so far patience can go before the movie starts lacking conflict. SOMEBODY ought to address the alcohol problem and the negative influence Sutter has had on her.

I'm also not fond of Neustadter and Weber's proclivity for the recycled gift-wrapped happy ending. "(500) Days of Summer" could have ended bittersweetly like "Annie Hall," but Tom meets Autumn and another seasonal cycle continues - for better or worse, the film doesn't even really care. Sutter finishes his lame college application essay about the importance of "the now" (even though Sutter working at a dad 'n son-esque men's wear store adds an oddly dated quality to this movie), goes to find Aimee at school, and she presumably takes him back even though he hasn't really had enough time to truly reform. The story's just terribly innocuous.

Clever concept of an average modern-day man waking up in the future to be the smartest person in a sea of moronic masses. If only most of the movie didn't merely detail the exploits of said morons cuz that got annoying and pointless fast.

The conscionable killer side of me was really raring for a bleak Woody Allen drama, and "Blue Jasmine" seemed to fit the bill with a luminous Cate Blanchett as the titular Jasmine, a former society maven whose marriage, finances, and family unravel ever-so-uncomfortably due to her hamartias of denial and hubris, as well as her odd habits of babbling to herself and others and dabbling in arts and phaux-philanthropy. Blanche(tt) is a frothy but formidable mix of Blanche Dubois and Blanche Devereaux, glistening with that fine-bone-structured charisma but also big ol' bullets of desperate perspiration.

I said "seemed" earlier because the ending is more of a non-ending. Nothing is truly resolved. I expected the movie to end with Jasmine dying by accident or committing suicide ala "Cassandra's Dream," thus rounding out a tragedy that is Greek in scope. OR I expected that Jasmine would get off scot free, marry Dwight, and live happily ever after without him finding out her sordid past ala "Crimes and Misdemeanors" or "Match Point," thus rendering the tragedy ironic.

Instead, we get a quivery close-up of Jasmine sitting alone on a bench - a sad tableau to be sure, but no definitive statement of her future. And Woody is never afraid to make a definitive statement, so I didn't appreciate the bland open-endedness this time. Nothing too terrible or wonderful is going to happen to her. She left the apartment door open, so I'm sure Ginger and Chili will go looking for her; it's not like they had the worst of falling outs. They'll probably take pity on Jasmine for another couple of months, then commit her to a sanitarium, which is already a classic American denouement for the former of the aforementioned Blanches.

Clary Fray discovers that she comes from a long line of shadowhunters, and she must save her abducted mother by confronting the demons and "down-worlders" in her past (while wearing the hell out of some hotsy-totsy ensembles).

Clary is a decently badass chick who is just fragile and girly enough to still want love, and Lily Collins plays her with winsome gusto. I think I'm officially a fan of Collins' heavy eyebrows and distinctly Audrey Hepburn air. The legs of the love triangle, played by Jamie Campbell Bower and Robert Sheehan, are satisfyingly edgy and adorable, respectively. JCB is actually rather funny in a cold, sardonic way. All the rest of the supporting cast are great: Jonathan Rhys Meyers is sexy and evil; Lena Headey is daring and angelic; Jemima West is bold but understated; and pantsless Godfrey Gao is a charismatic new guard of the Asian Persuasion.

Having never read the books, I was pleasantly thrilled and surprised by all the twists and turns. I also give the books and movie kudos for GOING THERE, you know what I mean? The twistiest of turns is balanced and open.

Anyone who doesn't love "Casablanca" should...stay in Casablanca? I don't know if this is the original give-up-the-girl-for-the-sake-of-the-Resistance story, but it's certainly got the most class. My favorite scene is the one in which the Germans are carousing to their anthem, and Victor strides up to the band and tells them to play "La Marseillaise." The band leader looks over at Rick, and he nods, almost imperceptibly. Vive la France!

Upon recent viewing though, I noticed several instances of vague show coupled with obvious tell - spoken recaps of the previous scene just in case an audience missed the subtext.

SO RIDICULOUSLY HAPPY! The music and lyrics are beautiful and well-paced, save for a few woolly reprises. No one is too evil, except for the freakin' Nazis, and rightfully so cuz the enemy OUGHT to be bigger than us all! I rather love Charmian Carr as Liesl and "Sixteen Going On Seventeen," but my stomach just wells up with anger during that flirtatious little number, knowing that Rolfe is gonna become a little Nazi bitch. Watching as an adult now, I'm also pleasantly surprised at how subtly sexy that whole dance scene between Maria and Captain Von Trapp out on the terrace is.

Love Marilyn Monroe - the sexy, the innocent, the Silver Screen star, the controversial pop icon. Her performances of "Runnin' Wild," "I Wanna Be Loved By You," and "I'm Through With Love" are cheeky, seductive, and wistful, respectively. She overacts badly a bit during the yacht seduction sequence, and the gangster chase drags (heh) on a bit only to end with a much too easy resolution, but still, they just don't make 'em like this anymore.

It's a little weird. It's a classic, for sure, but the ballet-dancing, overacting, near-gangbangers are just a bit absurd. Vivid and frenetic choreography and music (with a few oversyncopated atonal hot messes like "Something's Coming" and "A Boy Like That/I Have a Love"), but the Puerto Rican accents sometimes slip, and the "brownface" make-up is disturbingly noticeable, especially in Rita Moreno's case. She, George Chakiris, and even Jose De Vega as Chino are fantastic, but I'm disappointed that the leads, Richard Beymer and Natalie Wood, had to be dubbed by what seemed like professional but deliberately handicapped singers.

This is one of those movies that I always watch if I happen to flip to it half an hour in on TBS or FX. Yes, there are plenty of fat jokes, but Gwyneth is the most down-to-earth I've ever seen her, and Jack Black gets some great dawning moments as well, like with Cadence in the burn ward.

A little creepy at first but adorable and triumphant at the end. Kira has wings! The lore of the evil Skeksis and the good Mystics being parts of a whole and the dangers of arrogance and corruption are powerful themes. I watched much of the hour-long making-of documentary too, and I've realized that I feel about Muppets the same way I feel about claymation and stop-motion animation: I understand and appreciate how much planning and work goes into them, but I get skeeved out by the looks of the finished products.

I just like it, okay? The ridiculously stereotypical yet clinically wholesome spring break scene. The matching trios of friends made up of people who would normally never hang out together. The inconsequential socioeconomic sideplot. The skirt made out of ties. Yes, the story is formulaic and the acting is either under or overdone, but the costume design and dance choreography are legit cool.

Kelly Clarkson is in great shape for the sweet (if bland) girl-next-door, and Justin is all big-haired faux-swagger as the reformed partyboy. It's all hokey as hell, but I just roll with it.

My second favorite film of summer 2013 after "Before Midnight." It's obviously not the uproarious comedy or SFX-laden blockbuster of typical summer fare, but the master of sci-fi-with-heart Joss Whedon's adaptation of the Bard is stylish, thrilling, and romantic with the light energy of a great summer romp. The black and white is sleek, the set design of Joss Whedon's own house is beautiful and sensuous, and the jazzy soundtrack is just ear ecstasy.

Shakespeare's romcom plot 1.0 is a bit...tame? for modern day. A rather huge deal is made over Hero's virginity, so much that when she is suspected of infidelity on top of fornication, Claudio, her betrothed, could enact such vitriolic public reprobation, her family could pretend she died at such horrific slander, and an otherwise gentle noblewoman would defend her cousin's honor by decreeing the slanderer's murder. Despite the dated material, Whedon adds some valiant updated touches: changing Conrade to a woman to add movement and intrigue to the scene with Sean Maher's icy and conniving Don Jon, hinting at Beatrice and Benedick's clandestine no-strings trysts and subsequent rancor because she presumably wants more and he's a confirmed bachelor, having Benedick deliver his Act II Scene 3 monologue while working out.

Whedon alumni Amy Acker and Alexis Denisof take on [their first] leading roles [in the Whedonverse] as attracting opposites Beatrice and Benedick. The pair rattle off Venusian versus Martian barbs, pratfall like seasoned Vaudevillians, and gradually generate palpable and ardent chemistry in the climactic scene of Beatrice commanding Benedick to murder Claudio as proof of his devotion.

The supporting cast is all charming and fun, especially sweet-faced Fran Kranz as the lovestruck Claudio. Having only seen Acker in supporting broad comedy or restrained drama roles on "HIMYM" and "Dollhouse," Denisof as the hair-helmeted ponce, Sandy Rivers, on "HIMYM," and Kranz as the exuberantly nerdy Topher on "Dollhouse" and stoner trope in "Cabin In the Woods," I'm really quite impressed with the acting of these three.

The iambic rhythms of Elizabethan speech did seem a mouthful for most of the cast at first, but it eventually ironed itself out, or I got over it. I'm always leery of contemporary Shakespearean adaptations that rely too much on physical humor and meaningful looks to clue the audience into the arcane dialect, but there was only a minimum of that, and what minimum there was, was organically funny.

Things I Liked About "Elizabethtown" Upon Second Viewing1. Orlando Bloom's performance. Despite having contracted Orlando Bloom Fever at the beginning of his mainstream career, with each "Pirates" and "LotR" installment, I got wearier and wearier of his pretty boy, dainty-featured backpfeifengesicht - German for "a face in desperate need of a fist." I felt a bit of that repulsion in the first few minutes of this viewing, but I eventually made peace with the delicate flower of his visage and was really impressed with his acting, especially during the road trip montage when he's alternately crying and laughing to himself.

2. The heartwarming midwest community. I saw this for the first time in northern Virginia, so perhaps I didn't understand the midwest mentality until I lived in Indiana. My daily life isn't quite like the family portrayed here, but even I was moved at the sequence of Drew first driving into Elizabethtown and seeing everyone waving and smiling at him with faces of seeming recognition, welcoming back the Prodigal Son.

4. Claire's thought and effort of creating an emotional road trip for Drew to scatter his father's ashes.

Things I STILL HATE About "Elizabethtown" Upon Second Viewing1. Kirsten Dunst. I didn't find her or her character, Claire, charming, cute, deep, or romantic (like NaPo's Sam in "Garden State" and even she's only likeable in small doses). "Elizabethtown" came during that dryspell after Kiki had outgrown her lost prodigy depth and bubbly cheerleader charm - which yielded such lifeless and/or annoying performances as in "The Cat's Meow," "Spiderman," "Eternal Sunshine," "Wimbledon," and this - and before she rebirthed herself as melancholic muse for the likes of Sofia Coppola and Lars von Trier. Her Kentuckian accent is terribly...not, and she plays Claire as much too self-deprecating (half-laughing through the big "I like you!" line), as if the actress didn't even buy the character's quirkiness. Claire herself is just a girl. She recites some manic pixie dreamgirl juxtapositions that seem delightfully incongruous, but then prove to be ACTUALLY incongruous and faux-inspired, e.g. "I'm impossible to forget, but I'm hard to remember." "Men see things in a box, and women see them in a round room." Is she? Do they?

2. The so-called fiasco involving Drew's shoe design. There's so much pretentious, aphoristic talk about fiascos and failures, but what exactly WAS the fiasco? What was wrong with the shoe? How could such a promising young podophile possibly think this vaguely Skechers Shape-Up prototype would work, and how did no one else notice its Achilles' Heel, if you will? The fact that none of this is ever revealed shows how little legitimate research on the shoe industry Cameron Crowe did. For one, it's lazy writing and directing. For two: see below.

3. The light treatment of suicide. This needn't have been a sadder movie, but it IS realistic at least, for all intensive porpoises. Without the grounding exploration of what failure means in the shoe industry, Drew's subsequent obsession with suicide is purely comical and absurd, not intellectual or existential. I'm never actually worried for or in suspense about his mortality. Also, the repercussions of the fiasco are only limned in monetary terms. Drew never expresses critical doubt about his mental, intellectual, social or self worth, which are more compelling problems than just the Benjamins. Even after Claire admits her burgeoning feelings for him, his immediate response is to blithely cite his date with destiny? Suicide's just a quirky appointment, not something that he is seriously debating cuz I'm sure after meeting his manic pixie dreamgirl, he'd be more apt to wine and dine the girl, not slice and dice his veins.

4. Hollie's tap dance. Okay, I normally love DANCE in movies, but I just wish this number was a little better. I know Hollie had just learned to tap dance on a whim in her grief, but the choreography was more soft shoe than tap. After her standup routine (which I didn't like although I do understand its purpose of diffusing grief), I just wasn't moved or impressed by the dance, and I wanted either more emotion or better execution.

5. The "last look" at the memorial. I was already irritated by the quirkiness of Drew "collecting last looks" and Claire clicking her mental camera, and Crowe managed to mess it up in the one place it could work. Amid the smoke, sprinklers, and Skynyrd, Drew looks up to the stage one last time, presumably at the sad but oddly jubilant tableau of his father's smoldering portrait and this utter shitshow, and thinks that this is a good last look, only to reveal Claire as the subject of his observation. It's not even that good of a last look, and it's clearly not the last time she'll be seeing him. I could buy it if it was a goodbye to his father and to the vagaries of the midwest.

6. The fact that everyone loves the soundtrack. I think it's overrated. Many of the songs sound like the same indie moaning. I prefer "Vanilla Sky"'s soundtrack.

A bit Lord o' the Ringsy around the middle with all the traveling, but on the whole, a warm story about a lavender bus full o' drag queens and their journey of self-discovery and revival. Terence Stamp possesses amazing gravitas, Guy Pearce is louder than I've ever seen him but I can't really decide whether his performance is caricature or not, and Hugo Weaving's blue-lidded peepers are quite expressive.

Never has puking in my soup been so enjoyable. Chockful of clever satire and over-the-top musical numbers that poke fun at Disney movies while still providing sweet yet grounded romance. Amy Adams is 18 Charisma with her googly eyes and daffy, floating arms!

A mystery with nothing to really figure out, ala the all-tell-no-show style of "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy." The scenes are terribly episodic, and they don't show HOW our hard-boiled Encylopedia Brown solves any of the cryptic clues. The scenes merely jump from Brendan following flimsy lead after flimsy lead, then getting beat up, then calling someone to set up something for some reason, then confronting another someone who was implicated in an earlier scene without revealing his thought process. The script suffocates from too much plot and hardly any connective tissue, and it's all covered up with this overcooked, pseudo-hip noir patois. The characters don't SAY anything; they're just written to sound unique.

The big reveal in the end is also anticlimactic. The baby is Tug's and arguably only tangentially related to the drug plot. Emily's first phone call filled with intentionally confusing jargon about "the brick" and "Pin" and "Frisco" is all just a ham-handed inciting incident catalyzing this wild goose chase. The filming is chic and cool with the zooms during the fight scenes and the high class, vaguely "Eyes Wide Shut" high school environment, but the style doesn't atone for the lack of substance.

I'm usually a fan of Sofia Coppola's indie slow burn, but "The Bling Ring" is a surprisingly bland pop confection that isn't nearly as satisfying as a celebrity pantie raid should be. The points of view are unbalanced; it's unclear which member(s) of the group we're supposed to identify, if not empathize with. The bookend interviews of Emma Watson's Nicki are interesting at the beginning but confusing by the end. What IS her real/fake story? There's also a pretty big real life detail that this "based on a true story" ignores: none of the celebrities actually noticed that their property was missing; Marc started losing it due to anxiety and tattled on himself and the ring, which then led to all of them confessing to these unreported crimes instead of plea bargaining. These omitted details say more about our culture of excess, crime not paying, consequences of being a stupid criminal, than the movie does. It would have made a stronger critical or satirical thesis for this well-directed music video (burnliment!).

Now, let's talk about the acting from this cast of beautiful young adults, which generated much of the buzz in my estimation. Katie Chang, as the ringleader Rebecca, has a rare blend of nice non-threatening lobotomized demeanor and luminous, slow-motion beauty that perfectly masks the sociopathic deviant underneath.

Emma Watson is...uneven. She does SOME things great, like skank dancing, pole dancing, and wearing the hell out of those large sunglasses. Go Hermione. Her American accent is somewhat inconsistent. I rather liked the snippet from the trailer of her doing the first interview because she picked a specific dialect - that of a valley girl. Throughout the rest of the movie though, she adopts the default accentless accent, and it's not as compelling. A couple of her vapid deadpans DO hit the mark, but other times, her mean girl posturing suffers from the same restless eyebrows and pursed lips that plagued HP. Emma Watson is hella gorgeous, and she's a fantastic solo model, but her problem is that she pulls focus. She doesn't blend into the ensemble; she is always self-conscious, holding her face a certain way to make sure she looks perfect.

The scenestealer would have to be Claire Julien as the hard-partying Chloe. Her deep smoker's rasp and raccoon eyes are just nice nuances to her devil-may-care aura. Her silent mug shot sequence, which shows her simply turning from right to front to left, is amazing for her glazed and misty eyes, and the seemingly innocuous family breakfast preceding her arrest is suspenseful because of the nearing sirens, yapping dogs, and her gradual tensing as she eats her cereal.

Upon first viewing, I found the movie enjoyable but unsubstantial. It occurred to me that I didn't dig the story so much as I dug the cute video game sound effects, the quick non sequiturs, the flash cuts, Michael Cera's spastic bass-playing, Mary Elizabeth Winstead's deadpan delivery, Ellen Wong's adorable geeking-out, and Alison Pill's sourpuss moue interrupONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR!

There's plenty to like, but the love story rings typical. The erstwhile girlfriend gives her blessing, and the movie's eponymous hero gets the girl even though the last battle seems to hint that both Scott and Ramona need to do some real growing up on their own. If Scott HAS to wind up with anybody, the alternate ending with Knives is sweeter, more realistic, and more redemptive (since she actually fights for Scott in the end).

Upon second viewing, I enjoyed it better for the kooky performances of actors whom I didn't know well three years ago and have since then grown to love, for instance lean and cut Chris Evans, mean and awkward Aubrey Plaza, pixie pipsqueak Mae Whitman, and the aforementioned, versatile and frazzly-dazzly Alison Pill.

HBC and Aaron Eckhart meet at a wedding, and we get the impression that it's not the first time. Their characters' history is hinted at in split-screen flashbacks with doe-eyed Nora Zehetner as the former, whose resemblance to early-aughts HBC is really quite inspired, but her accent could use a little work.

We know these ex-lovers are gonna fuck tonight, but the cat-and-mouse foreplay is still subtly suspenseful, with underhanded barbs and guarded tellings of their separate pasts. The script IS basic with no notable or quotable aphorisms, but I like that. The characters aren't trying to impress each other. HBC and Eckhart are so easy together that it's clear to see how the act of having sex doesn't really matter and how cheating on their SOs essentially isn't meant to be a hurtful or sinful thing, but a matter of course for the soul-connected.

I didn't love or hate the split-screen technique. At first I found it difficult to watch because I couldn't tell where the angles and POVs were, but I got over it and enjoyed the few moments where the screens showed the future and the characters' different reactions. The end when the screens match up confuses me though. Do they end up together? Should they?

A lightly neurotic Shiksa divorcee of a certain age falls in love with a twenty-something who turns out to be the ridiculously good-looking son of her very Jewish psychoanalyst. Really quite sweet and Annie Hall-esque, down to the bittersweet closing montage of Rafi and David's time together. The sprinkling of Jewishisms is more earnest (than in Allen fare) and contemporary with the Jewish hip hop soundtrack, and the mistaken identity plot is funny but not too embarrassing or uncomfortable. The moment of revelation isn't "Greek in scope"; it's quiet and stunned.

Bryan Greenberg is just really, really, ridiculously good-looking, and Uma Thurman is charming in a way I haven't appreciated in the past. I love the scene with Morris having to hide in the closet, then being startled by the cat, then feeding the cat beer, then sneezing because he's allergic, and subsequently, giving himself away.

This story of a Type-A gal approaching her sexual education as a series of regimented tasks is commendable for breaking the double standard against sex and raunch in female-centric movies. "The To Do List" is unapologetically dirty and baldly clinical, but I found myself wanting more emotion - not because fem-centric movies need to balance raunch with Haagen-Daaz and "watching 'Love Actually' until periods sync up," but because Brandy's buttoned-up character lacks believable motivation for such sexual depravity and the plot lacks any believable redemption for sins committed, specifically with Johnny Simmons' sad, Zack-Morris-haired Cameron. I understand Brandy's exasperation at men being animals, but she eventually learns that sex IS a bigger emotional deal than she thought, yet her and Cameron's resolution is solely about orgasm. Which I guess is another laurel for this raunchy fem-centric movie: the woman is empowered by sexual maturity not love.

The movie is kinda funny, and Aubrey Plaza, while known for her awkward comedy, gets some nice slow-motion hottie entrances. I don't find the movie terribly memorable though - mainly just Rachel Bilson's hilarious bitchy older sister routine and all the great 90s references.

Adorable and refreshingly deep, in regard to the theorizing over the nature of good and evil. Is a villain still a villain without a hero? Can there be one without the other? Can one create goodness, or will absolute power corrupt absolutely?

Surprisingly underwhelming. Duncan, a teenage misfit is trapped on a beach vacation with his loving but emotionally delicate mother and her pseudo-Alpha Dog new boyfriend. The exposition goes on forever, oozing loner angst, female cattiness, and male tension, and I thought, "You know what this movie needs? A dog. This kid needs at least ONE friend who thinks he's at least a 5." Duncan is devoid of personality until he finds an island of misfits at a decrepit old water park, headed by motormouthed Sam Rockwell. The movie's pace accelerates from there, but it's a little too late and sporadic for my liking.

A weird gripe perhaps: this story seems like it would fit better in another time. Trent's buddy-dad disciplinarian seems to be of a bygone era when "men were supposed to be men." The adult fashions also scream 70s swingers to me. Only when I saw the iPhones and glittery, naughty-girl baby tees did I realize this movie takes place in the present, then thought it anachronistic.

The ending works hard to melt the cockles of this bitter cynic's heart, but it's still a bit of a mess. Duncan succeeds in passing Owen INSIDE the water slide - a mythologized feat in water park lore - but we're not even shown how he does it. They share a bromantic goodbye, and I wonder why Pam and Duncan don't just stay on. The ending with Pam climbing into the way, way, back[seat] to sit with her son is sweet but small.

Allison Janney is a-mile-a-minute crazy in a good way. Annasophia Robb has some pretty anime eyes, but her delivery of the unique rebel girl's snarkasm is a bit forced. The scene where Duncan implores Pam to confront Trent about his cheating is painful and chilling. Liam James finally steps up, Logan Lerman-style (in "The Perks of Being a Wallflower), and proves himself a gallant defender.

Fantastic lampoon with all teen tropes represented. Profane and obvious, but oh-so-delicious. I think I've finally seen most of the movies this movie parodies, so the jokes are even better, especially for those 80s movies that I didn't love like "Pretty In Pink" and "The Breakfast Club."

I watched this most recently with the trivia track, and I'd like to point out an error. Joanna Garcia's Tourettes-afflicted cheerleader, Sandy Sue, is not merely a send-up of "Grease"'s virginal Sandy Olsen, but more likely a combo of her and "Pleasantville"'s All-American Slut, Jennifer-cum-Mary Sue Parker - whose sweater set, poodle skirt, and 50s curls are a spitting image of Garcia's. Heh heh, cum.

Kinda funny and silly. Two loser cook up their perfect woman, and she teaches them to man-up. Her loyalty to them is sweet and true. It's nice to see the typecast Anthony Michael Hall playing a confident-ish jackass. Bill Paxton as the meathead older brother is ridiculous. Young Robert Downey Jr. is douchey in a serviceable way.

Ugh. So awful. I understand that the overarching message of this movie is that stereotypes are merely that: once you get close enough to someone, you see how traits of yourself manifest in them and traits of them manifest in you. Well, how clever of these teen anarchists to figure that out despite the punishing dictatorship of a dead-hearted adult.

To use a similar argument reserved for race movies that try too hard, "The Breakfast Club" reaffirms the very stereotypes it tries to break. After some angry dancing and herbal refreshment, the Princess prettifies the Basket Case to look like just another mean girl drone - the outer beauty makeover of which was the only way to get the Athlete's attention. The Brain ends up doing all the essay work required of the denizens of detention because he's the most capable, the least likely to gripe, and the most asexual by virtue of his intellect, of course. And most awful of all in my estimation, the bitter, Albee-esque vitriol between the Princess and the Criminal is all due to love/hate sexual tension? Add "Slumming It" on her bucket list and "Deflowering the Prim Prom Queen" on his because I see no other reason why Claire and Bender can stand to be near each other.

The last "group therapy" session doesn't even hint at any romantic intrigue, so why throw it in? The gravitas cultivated by the club finally revealing something true about themselves is good enough; they needn't have paired off on their Ark of Happy Hollywood Endings to get across the message of accepting people for their differences. Some revelations are low stakes while all conclusions ring artificial as hell. Polite yet volatile Andrew broaches the staggering pressure he faces from being Alpha Dog in a brilliant long monologue, but he still gets a girl in the end. Smart yet meek Brian tearfully divulges his thoughts of suicide, only to reveal that he had brought a flare gun to school, not the vague "a gun" which would lead his audience to a certain sympathetic conclusion. Perceptive but alienating Allison admits that she chose detention because she had nothing better to do, but I recall a parent/guardian dropping her off at school and what negligent parent would even deign to do that?

My favorite, prissy but sensitive Claire, speaks the most truth about high school cliques and how the quintet probably won't be friends on Monday. I don't find her conceited as Brian accuses her to be; I find her realistic, and Molly Ringwald's everygirl magnetism doesn't overplay or typify the Rich Bitch. She recognizes how similar they all are, which brings me to everyone's seeming favorite but my least: Bender, who immediately and irrevocably shuts down any comparison between her and himself.

I normally take no stock in how much I "like" a character. Even if somebody is a repulsive jerk, I can still appreciate the characterization as long as they're interesting and developed. I found myself HATING John Bender. He is a repulsive jerk for the sake of it. He bows to no authority, but he lacks accountability for himself. He is startlingly and unjustifiably cruel, crude, and crass to Claire and everyone else. His few moments of humanity - parroting his abusive dad and taking the fall for the group wandering outside the library - are brief and baseless, respectively, thus inconsequential. His own demons and criminal past are not further explored, and his reason for acting the hero isn't made apparent, so he is merely a flat antagonist, a paper badass who spouts quotable badassery.

The detention letter that bookends this overrated Hughes joint also sticks in my craw. The Brain states, "But we think you're crazy to make an essay telling you who we think we are." I, as well as the group, interpret this as an earnest question; they don't take umbrage at the possible interpretation of the question as, "Who the hell do you think you are?" so IS the essay so crazy? Isn't the whole catharsis of the movie based on the Breakfast Club figuring out who they really are? Doesn't the punishment and existential question bring them closer together (albeit in a superficial way)? Once again, they can certainly defy authority, but they oughta show accountability too. I'm not suggesting that Principal Vernon thought up this assignment expressly to teach them this valuable lesson, nor do I fully sympathize with this disillusioned teacher turned cantankerous administrator, but I can't help thinking, "Kids these days just don't understand."

I had moderately high expectations for "Pretty In Pink" because I enjoyed John Hughes's (superior) "Sixteen Candles," and I was already familiar with its parody in "Not Another Teen Movie." I was ultimately disappointed though mainly because Andie's prom dress is a Pepto Bismol atrocity. Just kidding.

The poor girl-rich guy love story rang even falser. Blane and Andie's attraction is just googly-eyed faux-chemistry. What is this "something" that he sees in her? (I'm sure we, the audience, see it cuz Molly Ringwald rocks, but there's no scene in the movie that shows her striking his fancy.) What does she see in him? Is he that different from his richie rich friends, or doesn't he still just get by on his high class looks and sophisticated charm? On the date, he is incredibly naive about his friends' anticipated reception, and he does say some unintentionally condescending things that would rub me the wrong way. The class conflict is also slightly incidental and doesn't come across as a problem until the date. We know that Andie is poor, but it's unclear that she pays to attend a rich private high school with students who bully her for her relative penury. I thought it was just for her independent, free-spirited ways.

I'm also more than a little perturbed that the parody of Andie and Duckie's friendzoniest of friendzones is almost without exaggeration! Everyone is so totally oblivious! Even after Andie comes home and says, "I'm in love," her dad doesn't automatically assume she's talking about Duckie, who earlier confessed his love for her to Jack. Jon Cryer as Duckie is just charming and devoted as all-get-out, albeit embarrassingly silly and slightly clingy. His tell-off speech is probably the best dramatic work I've seen of Cryer's, which is a shame.

That's not to say I necessarily wanted Andie to end up with the friendzoned best friend (because unconditional idolatry bordering on obsession isn't what she wants or needs either), but his prom date savior move and sacrificial all-but-slow-clapping endorsement of Blane's bland non-apology is just too much and too sad.

The last day-in-the-life of Oscar Grant III, a young black man who was accosted for fighting on the BART and subsequently shot by a cop in what may or may not have been a racially-charged accident. The film is structured around texts, phone calls, and face-to-face interactions between Oscar and his family, friends, and foes that reveal his criminal past and his struggles now to be a decent husband and father. Whether the framing device is factually accurate with data gleaned from Oscar's actual phone records on that New Year's Eve day, the narrative is both realistic and moving, and it builds a claustrophobic tension leading up to the tragedy that we already know occurred.

Michael B. Jordan is, by turns, youthful and grave - quick with his street patois bravado and quietly stunned with his last waking breaths. Octavia Spencer gives another spectacular performance as the face of tough yet fierce motherly love. Her reaction in the penitentiary's visiting room after Oscar insults her is remarkably restrained; her hurt is evident but she knows that it's no weapon to throw back at her wayward son.

The film is pretty even and "important enough" until the end when the emotional manipulation hits the fan. The shooting is already shown as a prologue, so the foreshadowing of taking the BART that leads to Oscar's imminent demise and Wanda's teary speech blaming herself for suggesting mass transit over drunk drivers on NYE is excessive. After the shooting, the trigger-happy cop looks shocked and disgusted by the metaphorical blood on his hands, and the asshole cop who detained Oscar and his friends takes Oscar's hand comfortingly as the former bleeds out on the platform. I don't know if the cops' reactions were true, but it all felt a little too manufactured. The epilogue with the real life footage of Oscar's daughter, Tatiana Grant, could only be more cliche if it was underscored by "Amazing Grace." By the end, the movie doesn't seem to say much about race or class or police brutality or law. It relies too much on pathos appeals to make this "a human story," not just a race or class story, which I find somewhat of a cop-out. The balance could have tipped more to the political instead of just the emotional.

Terribly disappointing. I'm not a fan of muppets anyway, and the campy faux musical numbers go nowhere. Sarah is such a brat at the beginning; her dad and stepmother aren't THAT cruel or negligent. She seems to go after the stolen Toby only out of self-preservation, not out of any fraternal love or filial piety. Her reason for loving her brother isn't shown or found, and there's no reconciliation with her parents in the end. The intended theme of the movie seems to be about growing up or learning responsibility, but there are no specific challenges that test those waters. There are no compelling plot points, no rising action or climax - just a bunch of traveling with some surface friendships, some chases, and not enough riddles.

The provenance of the key to defeating the Goblin King ("You have no power over me") is also slightly vague. Sarah seems to recite from a play in the first scene, but it's unclear that the labyrinthine dreamscape she unlocks is from that same play/book (which I learned from the DVD case synopsis was her favorite book), and the secret weapon was in the book the entire time; she need only to remember it.

The vaguely bondage/domination desires of the Goblin King are creepy but almost not creepy enough. There's no real sense of romance, but there's no real sense of danger for this age-inappropriate flirtation either, so what's the point?

So freakin' stupid, and the movie knew it and tried to salvage itself by getting self-referential and ridiculous. The only really funny part was Kate starting her suicidally depressing Lincoln's Birthday story as a send-up to her most awful Christmas story in the prequel.

My foray into 80s Horror/Comedy education begins here. Gizmo is super cute, the explicit scenes of gremlin-cide are campy and hilarious, and I finally know the rules of Mogwai maintenance, as referenced in much pop culture nostalgia.

I didn't expect so much violence, nor did I expect the main characters to be adults. The movie could have felt more real this way, but it didn't, and I think that may be due to the flat villains. Mean Mrs. Deagle is so mean that it doesn't MEAN anything. She has no raison d'etre, and nor do the gremlins. They just cause trouble.

Campy fun with some chilling twists and turns. I saw Kiefer Sutherland and Jason Patric in "That Championship Season" on Broadway a couple years ago, and it's wild to see them in their first roles - all long-maned and frisky. Young Dianne Wiest is so fragilely beautiful, and young, gypsy-flavored Jami Gertz (of Seinfeld's "I don't have a square to spare" fame) looks like Shakira! Coreys Haim and Feldman are surfer-dude lame but nevertheless hilarious.

How easy is it to fall in love with Adam Scott? Too easy. His perfectly tousled man-coif. His boyish but faintly rat-looking nose-mouth combo. His extraordinary ability to tear up at the drop of a hat. His brand of deathly serious deadpan that is neither sarcastic nor snarky.

Herein lies the problem: Scott's Jason is such a lovable guy that it's completely unbelievable that he's the shallow womanizer the plot calls for him to be. He treats his platonic bestie, Julie, like a queen. He entertains her neurotic wee-AM phone calls. He never fails to address her as "Doll," his schmaltzy, old-fashioned moniker for her. Why? It's unclear HOW they became friends, WHY nothing ever happened (beyond the truly weak argument of lack of physical attraction), HOW they maintain their old married couple ease, and WHY he doesn't bend over backward like this for any other woman. Is it because he only has room for one most important woman in his life? Is it because he's in denial about his non-platonic feelings for her? Are they both so blind? Jason and Julie's partnership is too cute and too cooked. Their romantic union is fairly predictable.

This is not to say Jennifer Westfeldt isn't still a remarkable triple threat who creates great films for and about women. The existential questions that come with life, love, and responsibility are witty and devastating. Jason and Julie's hairbrained scheme to have a baby with each other is charming, and it's satisfying to see how together they have it (at first). The cast shines with chaotic humor and cuts with gross cruelty. I rather like Megan Fox, and she plays the perfect hot girl with subtle glamour. Jason's declaration of love and loyalty for the mother of his children is just the tenderest of juggernauts.

All in all, an enjoyable movie dampened by an unrealistic/confusing male lead and a cheap, hurried reconciliation that overemphasizes physical and sexual attraction.

Before we get started, I just wanna say, "Damn Nicki Kidman. DAT ASS!" Sleek and perky with no VPL. I imagine that's hard to do in the sweltering heat of Key West.

Nicole Kidman plays intrepid war correspondent Martha Gellhorn with spirit and guts. As the young woman, she proves to be Hem's literary and sexual equal but eventually realizes that his is a pride so crippling that it would recognize no equal. As the older woman, she wears the age make-up naturally and stretches her gravelly voice into an emotional frame story.

Clive Owen cuts a mean silhouette, but he is disappointing as Hemingway overall. His natural mush-mouthed British cadence gets mangled with Papa's gruff Patrician accent. I also have yet to see an actor deliver Papa's aphorisms without making him sound like a caricature. Owen's performance is not a huge problem though since this isn't so much a movie about Ernest Hemingway as it is a movie about Martha Gellhorn, who most literari know little about beyond her being Hem's third wife.

This new focus into the woman behind the man who refused to get behind a woman (except in the boudoir) is commendable and generally well-plotted. The action gets a little confusing throughout, especially due to the baseless changing of hues from sepia-tone to technicolor. The sex scenes get a bit Lifetimey too.

I expected this movie to be funnier, especially with Nick Offerman and Megan Mullally in the ensemble. A young couple revels in love and booze, but the wife eventually attempts sobriety to the husband's carefully masked disappointment. Alcoholism isn't inherently funny, but a film about it should be to some extent; otherwise, the struggle becomes melodramatic and the same as every other textbook addiction film.

Nick Offerman's awkward flirtation is intended to provide some comic relief, but it just ends up being overlong, creepy, and inconsequential. The script is realistic and provides some riveting plot points (Kate teaching her 1st graders with drunken exuberance, then puking and perpetuating the kids' assumption that it was morning sickness; Kate waking up under a shady overpass, unsure and scared of what transpired the night before; Kate losing control of her bladder at the liquor store and then sneakily exiting with the wine she wasn't allowed to buy due to the curfew). However, my main critique of the script is that it needed less text and more subtext in the climactic fight scenes. The accusations are so on-the-nose: "You're the reason I can't be sober!" Everything is spelled out and predictable.

Mary Elizabeth Winstead (along with Gemma Arterton and Hayley Atwell) has one of those faces that I can never recognize. She looks different every time I see her. She has some shining moments of vulnerability in this role, but her drunkenness is once again, a bit on the nose. My first acting teacher said acting drunk for a role is tough because drunk people don't necessarily act drunk; they try to act like they're NOT drunk. Aaron Paul, as husband Charlie, is quite magnificent with his ice-blue gaze. Charlie is slightly douchey and overall loving, but the way he loves isn't enough for Kate anymore. Aaron Paul does well in disguising his secret hope that Kate will rejoin his bad behavior as support.

I have a girl crush on Jennifer Westfeldt (which seems appropriate for this movie about a buttoned-up Jewess trying on lesbianism to find her [7] true love[s]). Too bad she's all in a committed long-term relationship with hunk-o-man Jon Hamm.

Westfeldt as Jessica is so adorably neurotic and girl-next-door-pretty. My perennial favorite, Scott Cohen, is mean and tough but also sweetly anguished. Jessica and Helen's romance blossoms awkwardly and hilariously at first, but the moment Jessica comes over to take care of Helen when she's sick is a nice turning point. The movie debates homosexual politics a bit, but it doesn't end with a clear message about whether one should be with her own sex or the other. It also doesn't cheapen Jessica's lesbian relationship as a dalliance.

I also love how the script sneaks in bunches of word-nerd humor and suffering artist philosophy. Judy's monologue about how Jessica quitting the school play because she thought her costar wasn't good enough - and only really hurting herself - is a metaphor for her dating life is eloquent and insightful. Josh's realization at his happiness for Jessica's painting and his own novel writing is a necessary reminder for all creative artists. Blech.

My first viewing was eccelente, but the second viewing felt a bit stagnant. I was really psyched by the trailer, but since I abhor both "8 1/2" and "Chicago" (also helmed by Rob Marshall) and since critics were saying it's a mess, I came into this movie prepared to dislike it. It's messy in places, but the match cut transitions from scene to stage work better here than in "Chicago." The music is lively, and the virtuoso cast deliver virtuoso performances.

Fergie may be a pop star, but make no mistake, she can belt. "Be Italian" is the best singing performance of the film - such drama and yearning. Marion Cotillard gives perhaps the best acting performance. "My Husband Makes Movies" is heartbreaking, and "Take It All" is kinky in a very tragic way. I rather like Kate Hudson's "Cinema Italiano" even though her character is merely a bouffanted yes-woman in the movie unlike in the stage show.

I'm surprised that Penelope Cruz was nominated for a GG though. She's quite sexy and tortured in her non-musical scenes, but her singing voice is a little thin, and she doesn't extend her limbs fully when she dances. Nevertheless, kudos for getting by on pure moxie cuz that's what you really need if you haven't got the pipes or the gams.

Daniel Day-Lewis is serviceable and charismatic, and Judy Dench is certainly a saucy dame. She speaks through a lot of "Folies Bergere," but it works. Nicole Kidman and Sophia Loren are underused, but they're still beautiful and iconic, respectively.

Overall, a brilliant spectacle with a surprisingly moody script that captures much of its source material's existential angst.

Life-affirming and sexy-fun :~P There was much criticism about reuniting the now thirty-something original Broadway cast to play twenty-somethings, but I rather prefer the older cast because now, their lack of jobs seems to come from a wiser, existential place, rather than a lazy, youths in revolt place. The deleted number "Good Bye Love" is melancholic, and the alternate ending with Angel's encore appearance is so much better than the gang crowding around Mark's lame single-shot "film."

Not as layered, romantic, or leisurely as "2 Days In Paris." The comedy depends too much on culture clash jokes that don't satirize or reveal anything true or false about the respective cultures, and Chris Rock is uncharacteristically bland as he takes the brunt of well-intentioned racist observations that just kinda fall flat.

Albert Delpy, Julie's real-life father, has a twinkling joie de vivre, and it's always nice to see German wunderkind, Daniel Brühl. The screwball Woody Allen-esque hijinx pick up after Marion's performance art piece of selling her soul to the highest bidder despite not believing in the soul, her subsequent entreaty to one Vincent Gallo, the buyer, to give it back, and her adorably neurotic distress over Gallo having eaten her soul. Julie Delpy is seriously balls-to-the-wall nuts, but she is also simply fantastic.

A tour de force reminiscent of Woody Allen's bittersweet love stories. Julie Delpy's triple threat debut is witty, funny, and poignant in its portrayal of a doomed romance. The blend of languages is seamless and depicts little-known aspects of American to French culture clash. I love the family's boisterous fight in the courtyard over Anna accidentally fattening up Marion's cat, then Jack peering down, asking if anything is wrong, and Marion saying bemusedly, "No. Why?" Marion's altercation with the racist cabbie is also ballsy and hilarious, with Delpy miming Hitler's mustache and the sign for asshole while braying, "Welcome to France," to Jack's prudish embarrassment.

In response to Flixster friend, Ryan Hibbett's critique of the film, I don't think Delpy is saying she hates France. She examines France's despicable qualities through an American lens, and vice versa, seeing as how she's almost an expat herself. The film pokes fun lovingly at idiosyncracies of both cultures (Jeannot's porny art and penchant for keying luxury cars vs. Jack's misanthropic treatment of his own countrymen for selfish reasons).

Also, Marion may have had a lot of ex-boyfriends, but she is not an immoral slut-bag. For one, she tearfully declines the affair with Mathieu, and for two, Delpy would reclaim that epithet in the name of feminism, this specific brand of which has roots in Simone de Beauvoir's "Manifesto of the 343 Sluts" (a no-shame pro-choice tract signed by 343 famous French feminists including Delpy's own mother, which Marie Pillet even mentions in the film). The aforementioned taxi altercation is so layered in this respect. It marks the boorishness of the French male but also the shamed pacifism of the "polite, intellectual" American male, Jack, who sits and does nothing to defend himself or his girlfriend while she expresses her ardent distaste for racism (an admirable quality) in an inebriated, vulgar, verbal castration (a less admirable quality for some, but a rousing show of feminism for her.)

Similar to the physical fracas in the cafe later, her morals behoove her to hate an ex who fucked little girls; her insatiable appetite for verbal castrations obviously behoove her to lose her temper. This little woman has a mouth on her, and she's not afraid to use it. She can be mean and annoying, but she owns it. She's not afraid to portray herself as the crazy French bitch.

Paid more for IMAX. Not terribly impressed. I've been waiting for another "Memento"-esque movie from Nolan, but the more popular he gets, the more mainstream his movies become. Huge blockbuster effects over subtle representations of deceit, action, and love.

This movie about dreams doesn't really gel with me personally because I don't have dreams in which I can "do anything." I can't make decisions in my dreams, so I was hoping this movie would address how different people dream, dream theory, common dreams, and perhaps dream interpretation, not just cool zero gravity fight scenes and "repression."

There are also several plot holes/inconsistencies. I don't buy that Ariadne would be the only one to try to crack Cobb's subconsciousness. His team has worked with him for much longer, and they still don't realize what danger they're in? How could the team not have realized Arthur's dream would coincide with the van crashing off the bridge and as such, prepare for zero gravity? What is this call that Saito makes to absolve Cobb of his past? How is Cobb even implicated in Mal's death when her point of impact from the hotel room is below a different hotel room than the one that holds signs of struggle? Why is Mal's name so obviously evil? And IF the top DOESN'T topple over at the end, then whose dream and what level are we in? The emotional and psychological elements of the movie aren't as effortlessly beautiful as the easily malleable dream worlds, which as I mentioned before, isn't EVERYONE'S dream world.

Joseph Gordon-Levitt is just about the hottest guy ever. Cillian Murphy is a close second.

In comparison to its prequel, I found "Into Darkness" a bit plodding and formulaic. I'm not sure of the villain's drive. What does he plan to do with the world after he gets his comrades back? Spock and Uhura get a typical Martian/Venusian fight, Alice Eve plays an intrepid blond hottie who really has no purpose, and the guy-love between Kirk and Spock is so overdone.

I admire the brain of "Star Trek" - a duel between logic and emotion - but the Kirk's and Spock's role reversal is a bit easy and expected.

And to ride on the coattails of a recent celebrity name game, "I wanna Benedict all over your Cumberbatch."

I've said before that I like my baseball movies shiny and happy. Well, "42" is shiny at times and happy at times, but never a satisfying combination of the two like the other numerically named baseball tribute, "61*." I understand that Robinson's role in baseball and African-American history isn't necessarily one of shine and happiness, but then that gives no excuse for the All-American veneer and Lifetimey writing throughout the first half.

Not until Robinson's breakdown in the tunnel does the film "get real," so to speak. Robinson faces more racism but gradually shows his strength, and the film finally gets around to Branch Rickey's reasons for bringing a black man into the sport's white hallowed halls. Robinson is unsatisfied with the propagandistic "we must triumph over racism" reason, as well as the missing-the-forest-for-the-tree "you're a fine young man" reason, but he is satisfied with Rickey's "I won't stand for unfair treatment of talent in the game I love" reason. It seems the most honest, and I can't say I'm quite satisfied with it, but the film seems satisfied with it, so that's fair.

Chadwick Boseman is charismatic and athletic with great gravitas. The editing of Harrison Ford is uneven. Sometimes, I couldn't tell it was Ford, but other times, I could, and it wasn't great. Newcomer Nicole Beharie as Rachel Robinson embodies grace under pressure, and she reminds me of Kerry Washington in "Ray" - a supportive wife character, full of goodness and light, but not lacking in personality.

What a hot mess of a movie. Stellan Skarsgård and Javier Bardem both kinda phone it in as celebrated painter Francisco Goya and a flip-flopping monk who rapes a girl wrongly imprisoned as a heretic. This was also during the late-aughts era of NaPo's awkward and repetitive acting choices, which included such disasters as "Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium," "The Other Boleyn Girl," "The Other Woman," and "Brothers."

One big problem I have with the movie (aside from the senseless plot and torrid pacing, which I can't even comment on further) is the lack of accent-work. I understand that big period pieces such as this cater to an American audience, and as such, historical figures from myriad countries speak English with an anesthetized, historical-sounding British accent. This movie doesn't even offer that! It's a weird olio of Skarsgård's Swedish, Bardem's Spanish, and Portman's American. ALSO, Goya still speaks perfectly after going deaf.

You'd think I would love this movie, but alas, I'm just okay with it. It's nostalgic and charming, but it seems like canned nostalgia and canned charm. The representations of Gil's '20s literary heroes are somewhat caricatured, especially Hemingway's macho motormouth. But maybe that's the point...nostalgia never lives up to expectations in the light of day.

I wasn't terribly impressed with Marion Cotillard either. One of the only details I remember from "You Will Meet A Tall Dark Stranger" is the first, glorious shot of Freida Pinto, and I was expecting equal glory in the shot of Marion, but alas, the murky lighting against her dark hair and raccoon eye make-up deadens her glow. Her acting also seems a bit dead. The only time she lights up is in the Belle Epoque when she gasps at the sight of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. Then again, maybe that's the point...we all think we'd be happiest in another era. Argh.

So you see, I technically haven't MISSED the point - nostalgia is a passive not active pleasure. I just wanted some more substance. Carla Bruni and Alison Pill are respectively willowy and sassy.

A rather cute tale of fringe pirates with funny puns, a gruesome twist from Queen Victoria voiced by evil incarnate, Imelda Staunton, and some impressive, near-unrecognizable voicework by Hugh Grant. Nevertheless, the gaping ellipses of claymation mouths makes me a little queasy, so I just wasn't terribly into it.

SO WONDERFUL! It's even sadder and more heartfelt watching this as an adult! The bikes flying is so triumphant, and the sibling loyalty is touching. Henry Thomas is hella amazing, in all his shrieky terror and drunken stupors. I'm surprised he didn't get nominated for an Oscar!

Gut-busting laughs all throughout with Freaks & Geeks alums behaving like bigger, badder versions of themselves. Jonah Hill is a moonfaced demon. James Franco and Danny McBride get into a hilarious, overlong verbal coming contest. And my boy Jay Baruchel plays a nice, God-fearing, B-List actor who must repent for his self-righteous ways.

The problem is that this movie lacks verisimilitude. Sci-fi/disaster/supernatural movies need to abide by their own set of rules so that the audience can suspend disbelief accordingly. In this movie though, crazy stuff happens for the sake of crazy stuff happening. It gets a bit much and formulaic. Emma Watson gets to wield an ax, but her prissy prim demeanor doesn't really sell all those f-bombs. BSB 4-EVA!

My immediate 5-star reception has calmed down a bit, but I still think it's the strongest of the three. I wasn't in love with the first two installations - the first for its veneer of pretention, the second for its sequelly "must resolve conflicts" feel - but "Before Midnight" combines the talky whimsy of the first with the concrete problems of the second, while adding in the claustrophobic ache of an impending black hole.

The setting of Greece is sumptuous, and the supporting characters are charming, especially sun-kissed, curly-haired Ariane Labed. I love how she holds and hides her face with her hands. Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy are chemistry personified. It's a wonder that they haven't actually been cohabiting partners, raising twin girls in France for the past ten years. Their half-hour conversations are funny and sad and meandering and layered. The opening sequence in the car and the walk to the hotel feel mundane yet natural and magnetic.

SPOILERS:

The climactic fight is sickening to watch (in a good way); it's nearly ALL RISE with a small oasis of reconciliation that I found identifiably realistic. At first I felt indignant at how crazy and irrational Celine was being, but then I realized that I usually take Jesse's logical-moral-high-ground stance in domestic squabbles, which I take as right, but does come off as cold and sanctimonious. The root of Celine's "craziness" and "irrationality" is revealed in a blissfully unapologetic admission of maternal anxiety, and while that theme isn't new, Celine sticks to her guns so extremely that it seems new - or at least new to the couple who have probably had versions of this fight many times before.

The time traveler ending is silly but sooo Jesse - an affect that the wizened dad probably forsook in these two decades since Vienna. There's no guarantee that they'll work it out, but OH that last line: "It must have been a great night we're about to have." SOOO GOOD!

I like my superhero movies the way I like my baseball movies: glossy and shiny instead of deep and dark. Yes, I do feel vapid and mainstream when I can't keep up with the comic panel storyline or when the close-up, gritty fight scenes confuse and disorient my rods and cones. The movie nearly ended five times, and I was about ready to go.

This Superman installment is the tale of the Prodigal Son, with at least three other Christ allusions, which is three too many to be coincidental. Henry Cavill is huge and handsome, if a bit too strong and silent. I first fell in love with him as young and brave Albert in "The Count of Monte Cristo," opposite another erstwhile love Jim Caviezel, and I'm disappointed that he's not really my cuppa tea anymore.

Diane Lane and Kevin Costner are folksy and loyal adoptive parents. Amy Adams plucks up as much as she can for the intrepid Lois Lane, but I find most of her post-"Junebug" and post-"Enchanted" performances completely devoid of charisma. However, it's nice to see Russell Crowe back in his element - gallantly kicking some ass in redemption for his impotent and incompetent Inspector Javert.

I imagine that this movie would review itself with such choice descriptors as "painfully exquisite" and "delicately twee" with "deeply felt performances" - all of which combine to mean it's nauseatingly arthouse. Michelle Williams has paddled up the Creek to become the reigning queen of this genre, and good for her, really, but I honestly found her a bit self-conscious in her performance of Margot's kinky baby games. The film also spends SO much time with those quirks that we don't get to know the couple beyond that. What is Margot missing in this marriage? What does she want out of life? Why did they get together in the first place?

The flirtation between her and ripped rickshaw driver Daniel is restrainedly sexy, but the moment she...takes this waltz (if you will)...the movie shifts tone and becomes surface fantasy fulfillment, then pseudo-morality tale, then "I am woman hear me meow" fever dream. All three of these revelations come too late in the film for them to have any impact.

Oh Seth Rogen. You are no wispy-faced Charlotte Rampling in Woody Allen's "Stardust Memories," nor are you child prodigy Jean-Pierre Leaud in Francois Truffaut's "The 400 Blows." Those artily cut scenes of long, emotionally wrought or emotionally stoic monologues (respectively) are iconic due to their pure, eyes-open candor. Seth Rogen knew he had to bring it for this dramatic role, and once again, good for him for trying, but he shouldn't have tried so hard. Uncover your face and let's see you feel something instead of acting like you're feeling something.

The upsides of this experience were that this movie made me want to1. move to Montreal. The neighborhood looks so colorful and cool, and there are freakin' rickshaws and a within-walking-distance beach and mock-floggings for tourists!2. watch twee kook Miranda July's tweely kooky "You, Me, and Everyone We Know" again. I didn't love it as a whole, but I found the beautiful parts REALLY beautiful, and I think I'd appreciate it more now in comparison.

A rogue quartet of grifters and magicians execute an elaborate heist with the FBI and Interpol in hot pursuit. The illusions are visually stunning, the actors are charmingly smarmy, and the twists are plain old super fun.

It's all well and good to see Dame Helen Mirren pumping lead whilst wearing the hell out of a slinky white dress and Tiffany jewels, but other than that, there's not much else going for this movie in the way of conflict or resolution. Everyone is appropriately badass or crazy EXCEPT Mary Louise Parker in a thankless role that pegs her as a perpetual damsel in distress. She and Bruce Willis form a somewhat mismatched pair that shares no chemistry beyond loneliness.

Robert Iscove really has a niche. He directed my most pleasing of guilty pleasures, "From Justin to Kelly," as well as the 1999 "Kiss Me" klassic, "She's All That" (which really hasn't held up). In this little-known year 2000 sophomore effort, he combines his penchants for awkward meet-cutes, attracting opposites, and meticulously choreographed impromptu dance parties, and it all goes down smoother than a chicka-cherry cola.

The movie shares many familiar ingredients of its predecessor and other 90s teen classics: Freddie Prinze Jr. (this time as the Lainey Boggs-esque nebbish pantywaist, rocking the sk8terboi middle-part), Jason Biggs (as the frosted-tipped doofus), sweet-red Alyson Hannigan, and the requisite everybody-knows-what-they're-doing dance sequence, scored by none other than Fatboy Slim! Although "She's All That" is probably most remembered for that iconic scene, the one here calls for less suspension of disbelief. Jennifer knows the dance moves, and Ryan tries to keep up, more or less succeeding by the end. The club scene is more organically woven into the story than the perfect Prom breakdown.

The movie also starts out exactly like the more recent "No Strings Attached" (which probably borrowed from this) - Ryan and Jennifer meet several times over ten years - but unlike the puppets on strings that are the characters of NSA, R+J (heh) do more than navigate the aftermath of casual friend-sex; they navigate a real friendship complicated by the past, present, and future. The storyline isn't groundbreaking, but in comparison to all the movies "Boys and Girls" reminds me of, it has a stronger driving conflict.

Claire Forlani is way too old to play a college gal, but she is charismatic, charming, smoldering, delicately bony, breathy, and willowy and wounded as usual. She also rocks some great fashions - that weird hoodie sweater vest/cargo pants/Chucks combo AND that white backless top/wide-leg pants ensemble. Yowza.

The Disney cartoon sans narrative was quite vanguard in the 40s, but for an ostensible kids movie, the filmmakers didn't play to its audience. Stravinksy's "Rite of Spring" seems longer than the Jurassic Period, and the animation of the Big Bang is surprisingly violent. The prologue explaining the movie is also bone dry and humorless.

As a more mature foray into art and music fantasy, Disney further missed its mark with careless racist and sexist references (as it often does) in Beethoven's "Pastoral Symphony" with the specifically colored horses and in "Dance of the Hours" with the offensive and alarming gender roles. In the 21st century, "Fantasia"'s dated quality really shows.

My high school band had intimate relationships with several of the songs in this second incarnation of Disney's art and music fantasy. The slow yet strident "Pines of Rome" ended many an unconventional marching band show; the ubiquitous "Rhapsody in Blue" featured our prodigies in clarinet and piano; the bombastic and rhythm-mad "Firebird Suite" capped off my senior year concert; and "Pomp and Circumstance" (more widely known as "The Graduation Song") was played in its entirety by the junior band during commencement ceremonies.

"Fantasia 2000" is indeed a full movie-going experience with beautifully animated vignettes, classic but recognizable music, and entertaining if cheap celebrity appearances (instead of the plodding prologue of its predecessor). Watching it again recently though did provoke some criticism in me: the combination of sound and visual is sometimes too on-the-nose. The story is too clear; each audio beat is visually punctuated. There is very little room for abstract interpretation.

Having enjoyed the space cowboy bravado of the prematurely cancelled "Firefly" television series, I went into "Serenity" with low expectations, figuring that the movie capper would answer some questions but leave more unanswered. I wasn't wrong though it was still nice to get reacquainted.

The addition of quietly dangerous Chiwetel Ejiofor as an Alliance Operative provides a menacing new story arc. River's programmed badassery is brought to fruition but still mindfucky, and a couple characters receive heartbreaking yet honorable discharges. Jewel Staite as the plucky Kaylee and Adam Baldwin as the mercenary Jayne seem the weak links in this reunion - somewhat phoning in their once naive and sociopathic charm, respectively.

Iron Man can't lose. He's like America (fuck yeah): arrogant with first world problems that are miraculously solved despite glaring plot holes (where were all those other suits before? how does he heal Pepper so quickly?) He has nothing to really fight for in this installation except Pepper who is as flat as GOOP's enviable abs. She gets a few badass moments, but there's still nothing remarkable about her character or their relationship that make the story anything more than a stale "saved by the love of a good woman" story.

The movie's saving grace comes in Tony Stark's soul-searching journey with the kid. Despite most of the movie being out of the suit, the man himself in all his panic attack glory makes the superhero a bit more human.

The Mediocre Gatsby. I'm not a fan of the book anyway. The symbolism is heavy-handed and vaguely nonsensical: the green light, the blue car, the optometrist ad watching over the Valley of Ashes. We get it...but we don't. The awkward love plot is also full of "Really?" moments: Jay Gatsby moves to West Egg and hosts lavish parties that all of Manhattan's upper crust attend, yet Daisy, a veritable partygirl, never hears of him? Really? The self-made millionaire goes through several needless channels of matchmaking (Jordan and Nick) just to arrange a meeting with Daisy? Really? As friend, Molly Brost, notes, "For a book with adultery, murder, and lavish parties, the story is quite boring. I can't even remember who dies at the end."

Fitzgerald fans may be satisfied though. Style auteur Baz Luhrmann's glitzy rendition does stick incredibly true to the book in terms of story and theme: the love plot is awkward, and the symbolism is heavy-handed. Barring some odd, hopefully out-of-context comments about how Lurhrmann wishes the movie will spark several Gatsby-themed parties this summer, the movie is visually sumptuous (if a bit Moulin-Rouge-formulaic) but also effectively condemns our obsession with wealth and the American Dream. The parties are indeed lavish, the anachronistic soundtrack is intriguing, the frame story of Nick in a sanitarium is unnecessary but pays kind tribute to FSF's prose, which we rarely see in film adaptations of literary classics.

I don't like the faces or voices or acting styles of Leonardo DiCaprio nor Tobey Maguire, so Carey Mulligan's sleek bob, narrow shoulders, and high breathy voice claimed most of my attention. However, more could have been done to show Daisy's vapidity and shallowness but also her fear of monetary instability.

Gotta love high-functioning sociopaths like HIMYM's Barney Stinson and Campbell Scott's titular Roger in this dark, delicious gem. Roger's tried-and-true tricks aren't just cheesy pick-ups, but carefully honed skills that show off the Darwinningest male. Jesse Eisenberg, in his first film role, is sweet and endearing with a hint of rebellion, and the brief roles of 80s-90s dream queens, Elizabeth Berkley and Jennifer Beals, make for a bittersweet sex education. It was so bittersweet that I wished something would happen for Nick and Sophie at the end - not necessarily sex but just SOMETHING instead of Uncle Dad once again aiding and abetting a lame flirtation with high school queen bee whom the audience hasn't gotten the chance to know and fall in love with yet.

MAN! MAN! I didn't LOVE this movie, but I can certainly understand its cult status as the bitterest of the sweet, chocolate-shitting, daisy-vomiting doomed romances. I'm guessing it spawned other rich boy-poor girl-DEATH stories such as "A Walk to Remember," which is also schlocky but irresistible.

The screenplay boasts some nice zingers (the couple's catty meet-cute and the bad-dad-retort, "I won't give you the time of day!" "Father, you don't HAVE the time of day!"), formulaic but emotionally effective flashback structure ("She loved Mozart, Bach, Beatles, and me"), and clever match-cut storytelling (tense dinner with parents told over car ride home). Francis Lai's haunting score and the impromptu snowmance sequence are lovely wordless portraits.

One gripe I have is with Ali MacGraw. I find her portrayal of Jenny completely overdone. Many of her snarky lines would've been better deadpan or flippant. Instead, every sarcastic quip is bolded, underlined, and italicized. Jenny is a quirky character that I'm sure many young men of the 70s fell in love with, but she could have used a subtler actress. I read on IMDb that the director considered Ryan O'Neal a reactor, not an actor, and that is certainly true. All of MacGraw's overacting is tempered by O'Neal's natural movements, boyishly floppy hair, and teary baby blues that exemplify how every woman should be looked at by her man.

*SPOILERS*

My other gripe, of course, is with the famously contentious line, "Love means never having to say you're sorry," and its implication in the movie's unsatisfying dissolution. Firstly, semantics: does the line mean one should never do anything so hurtful that it warrants an apology? Or does the line mean one shouldn't have to apologize because your partner already knows you're sorry and will forgive you? I personally like the second interpretation, and it would have made a better ending. Oliver's father is clearly sorry for cutting Oliver off for marrying beneath him. He gives Oliver money no questions asked and calls around to find out it was for Jenny's treatment. He has taken steps toward reconciliation and should be forgiven. I expected Oliver to say the line, then hug his father - indicating that he understands and accepts his father's repentance.

You know a movie isn't great when the best part is Nicolas Cage. "The Croods" is...surprisingly crude - in terms of even minimal historical accuracy and in terms of strong female character development (which I'm not sure they were going for, but if you get Emma Stone, our Big Red It Girl of the moment to voice your heroine, you ought to deliver something for her to work with besides grunty ogling of neanderthal beefcake).

The Crood family's hunting and problem solving tactics are really too cartoony, yet still not funnier or cleverer than the X's and O's of football strategery. I guess I was expecting an element of realism. The movie doesn't really start until Eep meets Guy who miraculously has AAALLLL the answers to prehistoric civilization: fire, shoes, critical thinking skills, musical instruments, slithey pets that act as belts, need I repeat: fire?? shoes??? critical thinking skills???? Where the hell did he come from?!

To slake a hankering for classic 90s teen movie, I gave "She's All That" a re-gander and found that it hasn't held up like "10 Things I Hate About You" or "Clueless" or even the first two "American Pies." This "Pygmalion"-lite is deserving of its "Not Another Teen Movie" treatment with its easily recognizable stereotypes and suspension of disbelief. Ducky-esque Jesse is blustery and useless, and even the group dance to Fatboy Slim's "The Rockafeller Skank" (of which I never knew the title) seems lame and dated.

Most movies of plays are just filmed versions of the plays, but playwright David Lindsay-Abaire actually uses the medium of film to create atmosphere, momentum, and chemistry. The play is a lot of TELL - and rather good, imagistic TELL; it won a freakin' Pulitzer - but in this adaptation, we get to see all the SHOW: Becca and Jason's acquaintanceship evolving throughout the movie (instead of just in the penultimate scene in the original script), Becca punching out a random mom at the grocery store, Becca breaking down at seeing Jason going to Prom.

Nicole Kidman deserved her Oscar nod. Her posture is stooped, her eyes are bored but darty, and she gets so close to crying but never does (until the end). Miles Teller (who plays cute and dorky Willard in the new Footloose) is wonderful as the repentant teenager. In disagreement with Flixster reviewer, Jim Hunter, I was rather impressed with Aaron Eckhart's emotional outburst. He didn't seem so much angry as heartbroken and at the end of his rope.

However, upon second viewing, I find the movie much sadder than the play, which DLA explicitly said not to do in his script notes. The music is sad and mellow and the shots of Becca's day-to-day life overdramatize her dazed emptiness. Izzy, the fuck-up sister, is also under-utilized whereas she provides much necessary comic relief in the play.

Upon recent viewing a few years ago, I thought the supporting characters more annoying than I did when I was younger, but the film is nevertheless a classic.

Upon yet another recent viewing, I found the songs more awkward and expository, and even reading-is-sexy Belle comes off as damselly and over-accommodating, not to mention rash and passive aggressive. Perhaps my once-unbridled enthusiasm for the film has been dampened by buzzfeed's barenaked ass-whupping of the "classic's" glaring plot holes http://www.buzzfeed.com/donnad/questions-disney-forgot-to-answer-about-beauty-and-the-be

The 3D IMAX does indeed enhance the film's scrumptious hues and visual illusions. Oz the land is beautiful and alive, and this prequel provides a triumphant backstory of Oz the man's journey from hackey carnival trickster to great and powerful wizard (with the help of FOR SCIENCE trickery). I also enjoy the clever parallels of Kansas versus Oz characters that pay homage to the original film. Zach Braff is adorable as the thankless assistant cum animated monkey valet, and young Joey King is all glassy eyes and bated breath as the Girl in Wheelchair cum China Girl.

Pretty awful. I think the movie was trying to be sassy cheerleading (Bring It On) meets teen social critique (Not Another Teen Movie), but it doesn't quite get there with its easy dick jokes. The final cheerleading performance isn't even that impressive. They make such a big deal about not shilling for Staples that I expected Shawn to cheekily deliver the ad to the camera after recovering from his fall into the water. That would have been gold.

Hokey as hell but still enjoyable. I'm a sucker for time travel love stories...no matter how implausible or Keanu Reevesy. Paul McCartney and Nick Drake provide a moving soundtrack, and Tony and Pulitzer Award-winning David Auburn's script yields some nice romantic insights.

Setting this sprawling, aristocratic tale of social and literal suicide on a stage is at first gimmicky, later mindfucky, and on the whole, an interesting choice with uneven but admirable execution. I especially liked the backstage/wings/galleys used as the seedier parts of Moscow/St. Petersburg and the breaking of the opera house's fourth wall during the disastrous horse race.

Keira Knightley is fine; I have come to not hate her anymore. Alicia Vikander sparkles as the spoiled and naive Kitty. Domhnall Gleeson is romantic but severe as the smitten Levin. Blond pretty-boy Aaron Johnson (Kick-Ass) sticks out like a sore thumb as Vronsky, the object of Anna's affections. Movie-mate, Jim Hunter, suggested that in keeping with the magical realism of the set design concept, Jude Law should have played both Aleksei, the cuckolded husband, and the hapless "other man." That would have been bomb-diggedy.

In terms of story, I'm disappointed that this version of Anna Karenina is so visually vanguard but still entrenched in the tradition of representing Anna as merely an adulterer, then hot/crazy harpy, then cautionary tale.

Star-crossed lovers are kept apart by an omniscient bureau because their perfect, fulfilling love will dampen all other desires, including their respective ambitions to attain professional success in politics and DANCE.

I don't particularly buy that thesis, nor that the universe wouldn't have better things to do than keep Matt Damon and Emily Blunt apart, but the light chase movie is kinda fun, cutesy, and dangerous but not so dangerous that a happy ending isn't ensured.

The thing about Judd Apatow movies is that they're always twenty minutes too long. The last fight scene at the party drags on, and nothing really gets resolved. A static dramatic arc isn't necessarily a problem, but it just seems like sound and fury signifying nothing. The other thing about Judd Apatow movies is that the woman - no matter how beautiful and charming, as Leslie Mann is - is always a bit of a bitch-on-wheels. She's all demanding and naggy and in denial of her bad arguing habits, and although Deb DOES trump all the men in her life by saying she's the only who has balls, none of the men do anything particularly vilifying. Pete makes some mistakes with money, but he is genuinely bend-over-backward sweet. Her two fathers DO cause abandonment and financial issues, but I don't think I should mention them because Deb herself wants to stop blaming her parents.

The vacation sequence is wonderful - Pete and Deb reliving their stoned, pre-parent days, and realizing that if they just remember this moment, they don't need to fight. The scene in the principal's office with a belligerent Melissa McCarthy accusing them of harrassing her kid (which they did do) and they both baldly deny any wrongdoing on their part is a great show of loyalty despite them being in the midst of a fight. I also rather dig Megan Fox. She has no shame or pretension. She has no problem playing up her maneater persona. (She was also rather funny and coy on "Wedding Band.")

Very thrilling tale about the origin of Jack Frost. The narrative is a bit long and meandering in parts, but all the characters are cute and silly. Like Thomas in "Pocahontas," Jack Frost is too sexy to be a cartoon character :~/

Calmly complex, inappropriately funny, delightfully pretentious, Jesse...ly Eisenberg...ian. This film captures small, disturbing moments with an objective lens, and the demons of each character allow me to accept without derision. Jeff Daniels plays the worst kind of literati snob, and I especially enjoy the pairs of foils - how each son sides with one or the other parent, then they switch by the end.

Romantic and hysterical! Very clever dream world of sock animals and cellophane seas. Gael García Bernal is awkwardly naive, and Charlotte Gainsbourg is understatedly worldly. Their clashing romance blossoms into the bittersweet.

Basic QT revenge-ploitation flick. Lots of incongruous shooting and blood. Anymore traveling and this'd be Lord of the Rings. Not much of a female lead. Django calls his beloved Broomhilda "little troublemaker," so when's she gonna start making some trouble? Kerry Washington floats on air, but I was hoping she'd get to do something besides writhe and scream.

Leo D. just doesn't do it for me anymore ever since he started playing with accents. They're just not good. Jamie Foxx is fine. Christoph Waltz is fine. Samuel L. Jackson is quite good as the most hated and hateful of all characters: the head house slave who unctuously enjoys his master's confidence.

I was close to selling this DVD, but then decided to give it one last gander before goodbye. I'm glad I did cuz this is really quite a sweet movie about redemption and the kindness of strangers. It's Classic Natalie. She's a bit vegan and weird now, but in her salad days (ironic?), she could really bare her heart in her performances. I also dig James Frain (Villefort from "The Count of Monte Cristo) as the lovelorn Forney.

So...Les Mis. I can't say I'm terribly fond of the story beyond Act I. Cosette is the boringest character ever. Why does a revolutionary like Marius fall for this vapid bougie girl? Eponine is a pretty thankless role in that Marius is a little sad that she died, but he isn't thankful for her sacrificing herself to save his life, nor does her death reaffirm his faith in his cause. He just marries Cosette, and everyone's happy.

Tom Hooper achieved a great feat with the live-singing. The performances are indeed rawer and more visceral than the glamorous belting of Broadway. My boy Hugh Jackman captures Valjean's repentence and compassion. He is a great singer, but I didn't think he was exceptional, probably because the character has so many songs that by the end, the performance felt repetitive.

Anne Hathaway will melt your face off in "I Dreamed a Dream." She even acts through the instrumentals. I take a bit of pride in knowing she could sing ever since I saw "Ella Enchanted." Her acting in the non-singing scenes is a little frantic and melodramatic, but that one song is award-worthy in itself.

I really dig Eddie Redmayne as Marius. He's got this ugly-sexy face and Kermitty singing voice that makes a somewhat one-dimensional character less of a pretty-boy ponce. "Empty Chairs and Empty Tables" is blisteringly painful, if a bit deja vu-ey after so many "raw and visceral" interpretations. Aaron Tveit has a magnificent voice, and I have come to really just like the role of Enjolras.

Samantha Barks (of the 25th Anniversary Concert, so you pretty much already know she can belt) is beautiful and full of longing, but she only has a handful facial expressions - all good, just lacking in variety. I'm not a fan of Amanda Seyfried, but she does what she can with the boringest character. I found her soprano a bit tinny though. And well, Russell Crowe. He can carry a tune...but not very far. He sings too much in his mouth instead of in his throat and diaphragm.

Bravo Josh Radnor. BRA-VO. I love him as Ted on HIMYM (and I also happen to love the character of Ted, unlike haters who prefer Barney as their man of the half-hour), and now, I really dig Radnor as a writer.

"HappyThankYouMorePlease" didn't have a lot going for it. Its clunky-ass title aside, a quirky independent romantic dramedy about six 20-30 somethings in New York City? So played out. In spite of that title though, Radnor has written a pretty mellow script that doesn't smack of an agenda. The inciting incident of Sam taking in Rasheen, a lost African-American boy, isn't about white liberal guilt like in "The Blind Side." They just become friends. Sam fosters Rasheen more out of selfish reasons than altruistic ones: he enjoys being looked up to, he enjoys fucking up his own life.

The movie's also not THAT quirky, in comparison to "Garden State" or "Juno," both of which I do love. I think Radnor's going for realism here, and I think he succeeds. The few quirks that happen - Sam and Mississippi's three-night-stand or Annie's Alopecia Awareness Party - are tempered with subtle regret (in re the former) and forced gaiety (in re the latter).

The intertwining stories are also not THAT intertwining, in comparison to "Love Actually" or *gag* "Valentine's Day." There's no huge payoff - oh this person knows this person and oh that person is that person's long-lost half-second-cousin-twice-removed. It's just some people - some are friends, some are lovers, some are strangers, some are children of parents' best friends so they call each other "cousins" (but that's established early on in the movie) - and it's just some stories. The theme of gratitude isn't entirely evinced in ALL the stories, and I can see how that can be a criticism, but honestly, I'm glad it didn't smack me in the face.

I love the veiled Woody Allen observation that Mary Catherine makes, "Why one movie a year? Why not one every other year?" because I LITERALLY heard someone say those EXACT words the other day, which goes to prove, every movie I'm seeing right now is about me [at the time of original viewing]. I wonder if non-Woody Allen fans won't get the reference or if they do, find it pretentious. I think it still works though cuz A) Woody's name isn't mentioned, so those who get it will chuckle and those who don't will just let it go, and 2) That line and other pro-NYC/anti-LA litanies are delivered by Zoe Kazan, who has kinduva shrill voice and kiddish demeanor. A character can be whiney and pretentious; a movie catered to a general audience shouldn't be.

As for Josh Radnor's acting, it's plenty serviceable. People complain that he's just playing Ted. Well, so what? It goes with the role. Wait for him to uglify himself and play a murderous transvestite prostitute. Then people will respect him. Anyway, he does provide subtle changes. Sam is a little edgier than Ted - definitely more cynical and pushy (in regard to the boudoir...). Radnor brings just the right amount of sleaze. The other supporting actors/characters are quite delightful too, especially Tony "Buster Bluth" Hale as Sam #2. He really does become quite a stud.

Can I also say how much I love Kate Mara? I was hoping she'd get the role of Lisbeth Salander instead of her sister, but oh well. She has such an interesting mouth, a Joker-esque grin. Her rendition of Kander and Ebb's "Sing Happy" is wonderful as well. Her cabaret-style soprano is reminiscent of Katie Holmes'...but better. The happy montage underscoring her song and the cut-to-black is also a sweet, subtle close.

The only change I would make to the end is that instead of cut-to-black, I want Sam to go up to Mississippi and earnestly say, "You looked very pretty" (like Rasheen suggested earlier), then fade-to-black.

I thoroughly enjoyed this. Now, I'm a Kristen Stewart fan, so I may go into her movies looking for things to like, but there are certainly some beautiful design elements that transcend acting taste: Colleen Atwood's Joan of Arc meets Disney costumes, the sprawling gothic castle, the ominous Dark Forest, the bewitching Land of Fairies. I was visually enchanted for 2/3 of the movie.

Period really suits Stewart, I think, as evidenced by how well she photographs for magazine shoots that put her in 40s, 60s, and 1700s garb. I predicted that she would be sullen as Snow White, but our first glimpse of her is through the bars of her tower - her fatigued eyes entranced by the sunlight seldom seen throughout her imprisonment. Her first quiet prayer is almost hopeful, not angsty. The fear and vulnerability she shows when Finn, Ravenna's dastardly brother cum henchman, enters her cell isn't underscored by her usual defiance. I paraphrase from "Entertainment Weekly"'s review, Stewart plays pure without being a pain. For those who say she never moves her face, her foray into the Dark Forest probably showcases the most facial movement she's ever done.

The plot falls apart through the second half though. The love triangle is underplayed, perhaps to dissuade comparisons to "Twilight"; ergo, the romance itself is insubstantial and unsatisfying. Snow White's rousing battle cry is poorly written and nonsensical. KStew gains a bit of volume at the end, "Who will be my brother?!" but to borrow a turn-of-phrase from Super Reviewer, Jim Hunter (not in reference to KStew per se), she's always just good enough that I wish she were better. The final showdown between Snow White and Ravenna is somewhat inelegant and doesn't make use of any great suspense or fight choreography.

A sweet fantasy into a weigh-station where the departed make cases for whether they lived fearless lives, and after judgment, they move onto greener, more intelligent pastures or get reincarnated back to Earth. I'm not a fan of Meryl Streep, but she is angel bright as the fearless Julia.

There seems to be a hidden layer of stupidity in those who move on - like that their diet consists of dirt and worms, or the substitute lawyer who uses 43% of his brain but doesn't say a word in court to defend Daniel - but they're just sight gags that don't come to fruition.

Mesmerizing acrobatics that would undoubtedly be better in a live theatre. The star-crossed lovers frame story of Mia and the Aerialist is pretty bland, but their swings routine at the end is beautiful. Sexiest kiss since upside-down Spidey: The Aerialist performs a parallel Iron Cross (or something), and Mia hangs onto his neck as they soar up and share their first kiss. Aww.

Actually not bad. There's no goofy, embarrassing hijinx like in other romantic comedies. The mistaken identity plot is played straight. The socioeconomic commentary is adequate for what is primarily a love story, and I like how Marisa's son gets to build a bond with his mother's suitor too. There is also no given that Chris and Marisa live happily ever after. The magazine covers in the credits say, "One year and still going strong." Nice touch, movie.

Absolutely delightful. An American-Born-Chinese lesbian finds her world rocked when her widowed mother is disowned for getting pregnant out of wedlock. The story subverts stereotypes about race, gender, sexuality, and age, but it never seems to do too much. Enough time is spent on major and minor characters and plots. The end teeters on Joy Luck Club-level saccharine, but the performances are all nuanced and the bilingual script is seamless in mixing the elders' traditional Mandarin and the ABCs' mix of English and broken Mandarin.

There is the requisite nagging Tiger Mom we've come to expect from Asian culture clash films, but Joan Chen brings a quieter, more sensual layer as well, since Ma is also back on the market. Michelle Krusiec, as the surgeon daughter, is brilliantly still and funny in a serious way. There are even a few mannerisms of hers that I know I do/did in my one short film acting experience. She, along with Carey Mulligan and Emmanuelle Béart, are actresses whose faces I'd like to wear, "Silence-of-the-Lambs"-style.

All the women (besides Anna played by the timeless Blythe Danner) are caricatures. Lisa's just a bitch on wheels, and Jenna's knife-wielding outbursts are all too melodramatic and one-note (not a fault of Jacinda Barrett's per se). She is described as being "like a guy" (what, like those sporty-sexy lesbians who will marry your boyfriends?), but never does that actually come through in her actions. If pregnancy hormones are to blame, there should nevertheless be layers to the outbursts.

The male characters are all interesting: from sex-god Kenny to hapless schmuck Izzy. I especially dig Casey Affleck's Chris, stuck in an unhappy marriage and amateur fatherhood. The entire sequence of him having to keep Michael's secret about cheating on Jenna but not wanting to lie is painfully awkward, thus funny.

I'd be more okay with this movie if it just stuck with the thirty-somethings. Michael's affair with Kim provides an inciting incident, but nothing really happens besides kissing in the rain and a mix CD (come on!). Kim is written to be so twee and lame, and Rachel Bilson bats her doe-eyes through it to no great effect.

A bromance that doesn't overload on raunch ("Superbad") or sentimentality ("I Love You, Man"). Zach Galifianakis steals the show as the endearingly oblivious but inherently good Alan. "We're the three best friends that anybody could have. We're the three best friends that anyone could have." I also like that despite their wild night of debauchery, Doug's location doesn't compromise his faith to his fiancee. He's not off banging hookers or snorting blow. Snorting blow - am I using that right?

Kate Hudson's smugface is really not my cuppa tea, but she is stunning in that gold number (and in those giant Ann Taylor Loft banners at the mall). The movie isn't as annoying as I remember, but much of it is Hudson doing embarrassing, stereotypical stuff. There's some real heart when Andie meets Ben's kooky but loveable family. Then the big reveal is kinda argumentative for no reason. Andie's all hurt that she was just a bet, but she was using Ben too, so it's just a ham-handed unraveling for dramatic purposes.

The soft science about men's natural proclivity to hit-it-then-quit-it isn't terribly scintillating nor monumental. There's not much to this movie, but that kinda makes it somewhat enjoyable. Just some day-to-day dialogue and a couple cute/sad/sweet moments (Jane's cheerleading, Eddie running into Becca at yoga, Eddie looking out for Jane on New Year's).

I can't remember the last time I saw a character in a contemporary movie who wasn't a mob boss or a femme fatale light up a cigarette. There is seriously so much smoking! And the mention of WTC really dates the movie.

It's not awful, but it certainly lacks the tongue-in-cheek spark of other Baz Luhrmann films, thus rendering the emotion quite melodramatic. I wouldn't say the movie could've ended three times (in that it was too long and repetitive), but new plot points just kept building on and on. There's always more.

This must have been when Nicole Kidman was Botoxing it cuz her face is a bit plasticky, and she overmugs to compensate. Brandon Walters as the half-Aborigine boy, Nullah, is plucky and exuberant. Hugh Jackman is rough and gruff on the outside, marshmallows and puppy dogs on the inside.

The first time I saw this movie, I LOVED IT. The second time, I thought it was just okay, maybe even a little below okay. Perhaps, due to the lack of subtitles on this particular disc I now own, I couldn't READ the movie while viewing it, so I noticed that a few performances didn't capture the gravitas of the screenplay.

I remember loving Paul's slam poetry ode to supermodels (how "they're bottled promise...hope dancing in stiletto heels" and how that's as good as love), but something in Michael Rapaport's faux-gangsta posture and gait seems stilted, as if he wasn't completely sold on his character's near sociopathic rant of genius. I also remember loving Willie's meditation on thirteen-year-old Marty (how she will blossom into awesomeness in ten years and that he'd wait for her), but the cinematography is too staid and the effect of the moving monologue whispers pedophilia before it whispers, say...imprinting (ala Twilight werewolves). I also also remember loving Mo's raving, nonsensical battle cry, "YOU FUCK WITH ME, YOU FUCK WITH YOU! YOU GO TO THE FOUNTAIN, YOU DRINK? YOU DON'T DRINK!" but the loud audio makes it difficult to hear actual words.

All in all, a damn shame cuz the coming-of-middle-age story is quite beautiful, and the young Natalie Portman as Marty is indeed precocious and magnetic.

Surprisingly awful. I was so looking forward to this movie because I like Bradley Cooper and JLaw and *DANCE*, but I had to admit, the trailer ran cold for me. The joke about Hemingway's sad endings is so hackneyed and artless that I was afraid the rest of the script would be as banal. And it was.

I generally hate those "two fucked-up people save each other" kinds of movies anyway. Like "Lars and the Real Girl," this movie smacks of being written by somebody who knows nothing about mental illness. Throw in a crazy outburst here, throw in a cathartic crying scene there, a dash of creepy quiet here and a sprinkling of antisocial behavior there, and you've got a cocktail for a superficial, seemingly true and relevant movie.

The performances are all fine. Bradley Cooper cries cathartically and gets all creepy quiet, but the role is just a charisma vacuum. There's nothing going on behind the eyes, and one can argue that a more talented actor could have done the part justice, but perhaps nothing IS ALLOWED to go on behind the eyes. The dialogue and Pat's bi-polar disturbance just lacks verve and opportunity.

JLaw sells Tiffany's crazy outbursts and whorish, antisocial behavior, but Tiffany herself is a character solely defined by those actions. Why is she so into dance? What else does she do? What was her marriage to Tommy like? What causes her to fall for Pat and vice versa? Why does she forge Nikki's letter, and how does that garner Pat's favor? There is so little development of the central romance.

The dance climax isn't even that satisfying. First, the whole bet plot just feels pseudo-quirky. Why dance? Second, the dance is neither that bad or that good, in terms of choreo- and cinemato- graphy. There are so few shots of the footwork, and the judges' scores are so comically different (4.8s and suddenly a 5.4) that winning the bet with an average of 5 is just a manipulative gimme. There are other moments of manipulation as well: Tiffany always running past Pat and startling him; the camera's excessive zooms. There is also no consequence to Tiffany getting trashed right before their performance. And they say the titular phrase "silver linings" way too much.

Everything about the movie lacks a motor. It's just a pretty-looking cocktail that tastes less topical as you go on.

So freakin' charming, you'll shit chocolate and vomit toffee. The colors and animation are deliciously vibrant. The underground world of arcade games is full of clever inside-jokes and cute cameos (the surge protector as Central Station; the illegality of bringing back fruit from Pac-Man; Sergeant Calhoun [voiced by hard-as-nails Jane Lynch] being programmed with the most tragic backstory of her fiance being mauled down by alien spawn at their wedding).

Wreck-It Ralph's journey to prove himself a hero is only the start to this sweet tale about friendship among outcasts. Sarah Silverman as the "pixlexic" Vanellope is adorable and annoying but likably so. Her piercing screams during the scene when Wreck-It Ralph tries to save her by wrecking her racer are so heartbreaking!

Calvin, a young one-hit-wonder novelist creates his perfect girlfriend on the page, and she comes to life, only to develop a mind of her own! Ruby Sparks is extremely lovable - both the movie and the girl. Zoe Kazan is quirky sexy as the titular dreamgirl and quirky talented for penning the fantastical screenplay.

Major spoilers *salute*

There are humorous moments - Paul Dano's physical comedy when Calvin discovers Ruby is real; there are dramatic moments - Ruby wanting more space in the relationship and Calvin fears losing her; there are darkly comedic moments - Calvin playing God and making Ruby Overly-Attached Girlfriend "I MISS YOU RIGHT NOW!!!"; and there are intense, disturbing moments - the climax of Calvin literally trapping Ruby in the room and making her dance like a puppet.

James McAvoy and Michael Fassbender are respectively dashing and troubling as Marvel's MLK and Malcolm X. Backstories of Charles Xavier's friendship with Mystique and Magneto's stint in the concentration camps are moving and cathartic. How Charles ends up in the wheelchair is a change from canon, but it's still devastatingly Shakespearean (Mercutio's "I was hurt under your arm"). I also dig all the joke cameos: Hugh Jackman as gruff Wolverine, refusing to join forces, and Rebecca Romijn as part of Mystique's shape-shifting ploy to get Erik in bed with her. Jennifer Lawrence is a bit annoying as angsty, young Mystique. I hope Haughty American Girl doesn't become her thing although by the looks of "Silver Linings Playbook," it may...

Ben Affleck seems to make important films. Or Ben Affleck makes seemingly important films. I've given three stars to all his directorial efforts, and I'm just waiting for him to really wow me. While Gone Baby Gone, The Town, and Argo here are good, they're not great, and what creases me every time is a story issue, not necessarily an acting or filming or design issue.

As for Argo, it isn't quite clear who the six escapees are and why the CIA tries so hard to get THEM out of Iran instead of the hundreds of others who are clearly undergoing a much harsher hostage experience than the six who are squatting in the Canadian ambassador's cushy house, sipping wine and complaining about being bored.

The last third of the film does indeed build suspense and tension and breath-bating. I like how brunette Clea DuVall is growing into her looks, and holy crap, I just realized I mistook Kerry Bishé for Romola Garai the whole time cuz I thought Romola Garai had a mole on her face, but it was actually fake for when in "Atonement," she played an older version of Saoirse Ronan who DOES have a mole on her face, LIKE Kerry Bishé! Oy. Anyway, good for Kerry! And good for Taylor Schilling (of "Atlas Shrugged") too! MAN. Three blondes (who sometimes go brunette) I dig in one movie!

Breathtakingly gorgeous cinematography and design. The story is triumphant - child Pi rattling off digits of pi to reclaim the legitimacy of his name (which is derived not from the mathematical constant but the name of a French pool that sounds like "pissing") - and heartbreaking - Richard Parker walking into the jungle without so much as a backwards glance and Pi's hysterical grieving.

Suraj Sharma acts passionately against a CGI tiger, and Bollywood legends, Irfan Khan and Tabu, kick any film up a notch. The flashback frame story is visually compelling, but Rafe Spall's superfluous writer character suffers from "serious acting face."

Major spoilers *salute*

Much of the brilliant fantasy is wasted on a spiritual metaphor. The "true story" doesn't even make as much temporal sense because the cook, the Buddhist, and the mother are dead by the first couple of days, whereas Pi is shown to have been stranded for over a year.

DDL is plain awesome as Lincoln, but did anyone ever have any doubt? His performance is capable and literally pitch perfect (in terms of his higher timbre), but it's expected - not in that DDL is always good so he needn't get another award, but in that it's how a good actor would create a role out of a legendary, oft-caricatured president. It's good casting - not MERELY good casting, but still, quite a bit of good casting. As such, I think the Best Actor Oscar should go to John Hawkes who had less source material to work with, as well as a better (near)death scene. I dug him in this movie too.

The movie is a bit of a snore in an important, historical drama way. There's only so much excitement one can generate out of a House session, and Lee Pace and Tommy Lee Jones certainly do their damnedest in those natty wigs and stockings. The script is old-fashioned and opaque at times. The comedic relief is stereotypically scored with a runaway fiddle. The comment on racial equality (not just legal equality) is either too subtle (in Elizabeth Keckley's case) or too obvious (in Lydia Smith's big reveal). And much like Justin Long in that other Lincoln movie, "The Conspirator," Joseph Gordon-Levitt's modern face and inflection just stick out like a sore thumb.

The first thirty minutes are gripping and appalling. Whip's drug use and drinking are casually underscored by Joe Cocker's "Feelin' Alright," and the plane turbulence scenes are intense and frightening. Denzel is indeed charismatic with a hint of violence.

The rest of the movie meanders a bit. Don Cheadle's clean-up lawyer doesn't do much but say he can "kill the tox report" - whatever that means and however that's done. I didn't care much for John Goodman as an overgrown high school burn-out. Whip and Nicole's battle with addiction is moving, but themes of faith and predestiny are underdeveloped.

THE OSCAR SEASON HAS BEGUN. John Hawkes gives an achingly wonderful, sideways performance as an iron-lung-ridden wunderadult who works with a sex surrogate to lose his virginity. The film is so light and matter-of-fact despite the sad premise, and the sex plot is so clinical, human, and free - not meant to titillate or offend.

Helen Hunt is perfectly capable and totally un-self-conscious in her full nudity scenes. William H. Macy is gallant and mildly repressed in a comic way. The supporting cast is beautiful and joyful.

Really not that bad. Kristen Stewart is indeed a tough vixen/vamp, and the angelic Mackenzie Foy, as hybrid-baby Renesmee, is sweet and beguiling. And would Twilight detractors stop freaking out about the werewolf imprinting thing? It's not pedophilia. Jacob's bond isn't sexual or romantic at all at Renesmee's young age. It's one of protector and brother that will mature into friend then lover. Geez.

This scream-out-loud farce contains more than your daily recommended serving of puns and a healthy dollop of licentiousness. Seeing present-day established actors in their first roles also brings a nice nostalgia factor.

Michael Keaton is a raucous and hilarious precursor to Johnny Depp's drunken gay pirate. However, the story of ghosts trying to exorcise the living is top-heavy, taking too long to start, and the zany parts, while visually stylistic, don't really push the narrative along - the dinner dance, Beetlejuice marrying Lydia.

This late 80s-early 90s hipster (not contemporary hipster) coming-of-age story is a bit too faux-outsider and faux-edgy at the beginning (oh woeful beautiful misfits), but it builds to a maddening climax and a cathartic denouement. Logan Lerman, as the titular wallflower, is charmingly shy. He also does stoned and stone-faced-crazy quite well. Emma Watson, of the "acting is attracting" school, is too concerned with looking pretty to have even a handful of real facial expressions. She's always trying to be something, whether sexy, flirty, angry, concerned, excited, or touched. Her intentions (read: eyebrows) are so obvious.

I'm not a huge fan of movies about writing movies. It's too convenient to have characters talk about the tripe they want to write and then have it actually happen in the movie. This one smacks of pretentious-college-screenwriting-student-aspiring-to-write-a-violent-septuple-cross-neo-gangster-flick-ala-Quentin Tarantino. It's like my first screenplay about existential suicide; it's all clever and deep, but the in-joke is too in, so no one cares. Then again, I didn't like "Adaptation" the first time I saw it either, but I enjoyed it more and more with subsequent viewings.

That being said, the movie is still a fun ride. Sam Rockwell is adorably psychopathic, and Christopher Walken gives as tender a performance as I've ever seen from him.

Bitchtastic. "I can see your toner [ladywood for a member of the nemesis male a capella group]!""That's my dick."

The rising action is a bit slow and repetitive with Aubrey mindlessly sticking to her traditional setlist. I don't particularly care for Anna Kendrick's face or acting, and her badass demeanor is mostly costume and make-up, but the song and dance numbers at the end really pump up the jam - especially with our sourpuss lead winning over the adorkable love interest with a song he introduced her to. No spoilers here! Rebel Wilson is hilariously "a ca-awkward," as are the ragtag team of supporting characters, namely the quiet Asian and her sociopathic murmurings, "I ate my twin in the womb."

Joaquin Phoenix is frenetic, virile, and violent. He's so violent as Freddie Quell that I wonder if it was exceptional fight choreography or just ACTUAL fighting. The sequences of "processing" are harrowing and uncomfortable - specifically the "blink and we start over" rapid-fire questioning and, for lack of a better descriptor, the "window to the wall" malleable matter experiment.

PTA's movies are vast and brilliant mindfucks, of course, but this one seems to star an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. The connections to Scientology are opaque, and the resolution between Lancaster and Freddie runs out of steam.

OH. MAN. So fraught and overly wrought but deliciously fromagey nevertheless. A struggling writer deals with guilt after taking another author's work as his own. DRAMA! The real writer doesn't want money or credit, JUST HIS LIFE BACK! DRAMA! The perfect, devoid-of-personality wife was unknowingly complicit in her husband's literary deception. DRAMA! Shit goes down. Life sucks.

I'm a fan of Bradley Cooper, so I go into his movies with positive expectations. He acts just fine, quite well, if I may be so bold. There's even a moment when he almost goes Full Man Cry ala Dawson Leery, but it's just restrained enough that it isn't embarrassing for anyone.

The screenplay itself is surface and stereotypical about the life of writers, and the frame story with Dennis Quaid and Olivia Wilde, is dumb and unnecessary. They were trying to go deeper, but I didn't like Inception either.

C'est magnifique! Audrey is smoldering and tempestuous and charming and *head explodes.* Story seems basic at first - gold-digger mistakes a poor man for her mark - but the second act twist of Jacques becoming a kept man allows for some nice dramatic/comedic bonding over the ways of the grift. The motif of the "euro for 10 seconds" (like penny for your thoughts) is very sweet.

LOL funny but not terribly memorable. I find young Jennifer Jason Leigh's moonface utterly forgettable (unlike her adult jagged little pill face), but she does well when she tells Damone, "No. Take that back," after he accuses her of wanting sex more than he did. My favorite character would have to be Brad, played by the Honorable Judge Reinhold. He's a doofy but supportive older brother who gets some great dad-ish lines, "Learn it. Know it. Live it."

Chockful of abominable one-liners ("Why are you pulling my dick?") with twisted-sexy performances by Winona Ryder and Christian Slater. Nevertheless, the satire is unclear. It partly satirizes "the tragedy boner" as coined by Diablo Cody in "Jennifer's Body," but then JD's Project Mayhem loses steam when his feelings for Veronica get in the way. He doesn't seem to have a motor, unlike other conscionable murder stories like "True Romance" or "Natural Born Killers." Thus, at the end when Veronica wins out and befriends the fat girl, the movie dissolves into a mere morality tale.

I can't believe it took me twenty years or so to see this gem. It's just such a nicely-packaged little story. It doesn't try to be anything other than a sweet bildungsroman that tackles class issues while treating the audience to beautifully choreographed dance routines.

It's really quite enjoyable - the humor, the drama - but it just doesn't make much sense to me. All these friends have such disparate personalities that there's no way they would all hang out and remain friends after college - and that's not even speaking of Wendy's completely baseless infatuation for Billy. My friend pointed out that my own circle of friends have vastly different characters, but we coexist because we've had the benefit of hanging out a lot in real life. The St. Elmo's gang are never shown "just hanging out." They're always doing something, getting into trouble, plotting grand gestures - all these huge moments of which culminates in an overwrought, melodramatic climax that of course brings them all together. The explanation of the title also doesn't hold much water.

As the plucky strains of an acoustic guitar played over the DVD menu, I mused wearily, "This looks delightfully indie..." because of course, "indie" can go terribly wrong. I'm Reed Fish does not. It's a captivating story about a small-town boy-wonder's quarter-life crisis. Deeply-felt performances, a beautiful original soundtrack, and quirky characters who aren't SO quirky that you want to punch them in the face.

Schuyler Fisk is brilliant. I loved her as Kristy Thomas in The Baby-Sitters Club, and it's nice to see she's grown into a decent adult actress/singer. I just fell in love with her during her songs. The only qualm I have with this movie is the ending. Reed and the real Jill shouldn't have gotten together. We've spent the entire movie falling in love with fake Jill. Real Jill (played by a mousy Shiri Appleby) can't build up nearly enough charm in her brief cameo.

If only Jay Baruchel, his face half-shadowed by a dusky lamp, would look me in the eyes and say, "Why aren't we together?" I think I could be happy for the rest of my life.

The last Disney princess movie before the late oughts' The Princess and the Frog, Tangled, and Brave. This was as close as we got to a no-frills "princess" with no love interest (Shang actually only stays for dinner at the end :~P), and it all holds up better than Brave, in my opinion. Great sweeping orchestral score and beautiful watercolor animation.

I only thought this was okay when I saw it as a kid, but now that I'm older, more seasoned in film criticism, and less ironically embracing of supernatural melodrama, I can truly appreciate Ghost for the stylish, thrilling, Academy Award-winning tearjerker it is. If you don't wanna throw some pots after watching this, you're dead to me.

This might have been one of the first movies I had ever seen, so my eight-year-old, limited-English-speaking self enjoyed it at least. Upon rewatch, I was disappointed to find its total puke-in-my-potato-and-leek-soup schlock-value. The stereotypical, opposites attract characters - Tom Cruise's rough bruiser, Nicole Kidman's fiery aristocrat, Robert Prosky's burdened rich man - John Williams' by-the-book, authentically inauthentic score, and Tom's authentically inauthentic accent (which is at least consistent).

Sad and true. Acts I and III are nice, but Act II glorifies embarrassment humor a bit too much with Celeste's downward spiral. I was also a dissatisfied that despite both Celeste's and Jesse's names in the movie title, both sides of the story aren't fully evinced. We go on Celeste's journey of self-discovery, but Jesse's 0 (still being "in love" with Celeste and too-scared-to-let-go booty calls) to 60 (having a baby and wanting to make it work with someone he just met) transformation is just too inexplicable.

The beginning of the movie is quite glamorous and charming in a "they don't make 'em like this anymore" kind of way. I especially dig the self-referential commentary in the opening credits, Joanne Woodward's shag mop, and Paul Newman's pouty smoulder. However, the story would have been just fine as an opposite's attract romp. Instead, the mistaken identity/insultingly garish-looking prostitute bit just embarrasses the hell out of Woodward. The message is overtly patriarchal: once-bitten-twice-shy businesswoman secretly DOES want to get married, so she gets a makeover, tells some tall tales, baits a guy, and gets bodily thrown into bed in a clever-if-it-weren't-so-sexist sports metaphor.

Milquetoast Michael Cera as a pencil-mustache-sportin' evil alter ego is entertaining enough, but the rest of the boy-ruins-his-life-for-a-girl story is pretty banal and quite tame surprisingly. Portia Doubleday as Sheeni isn't much of a siren either, but Rooney Mara looks satisfyingly hot and mean. The part with Adhir Kalyan from "Rules of Engagement" in his skivvies is funny.

Boring and confusing. But since my movie-mates enjoyed it, I suppose it was just me who was bored and confused. The office shooting should have been the inciting incident, but the movie takes up the entire first act with exposition regarding Jason Bourne. The final moped chase scene is freakin' fifteen minutes long. It even ends the same as the first, with the couple sailing off on some tropical azure-hued sea.

This was before I found Sandra Bullock attractive. Hugh Grant is serviceably dapper. Oddly enough, years after I saw it for the first time, I still remember the beginning and ending with Lucy ordering enough Chinese food to feed a small village to reveal it was only for one, then at the end, for two. Aww.

After watching this, I wanted to shave off my skin, blow my own brains out, then sit in a cold shower hugging my knees. James Van Der Beek is delightfully skeevy, and it was nice seeing gruff and comparatively aged Ian Somerhalder from "The Vampire Diaries" all young and cherub-cheeked. Hilarious against-type cameos from Fred Savage and Eric Stoltz.

A sweet and leisurely little indie. I've never thought much of Rosemarie DeWitt, but she's very understatedly sexy with her bangs and Helen Hunt-esque bone structure. Props to director/scribe, Lynn Shelton, and actor, Mark Duplass for deftly capturing and portraying awkward post-coital gratitude/silence, "We should get some water before bed...Thank you!...Good night!..."

Surprisingly wonderful. I went in expecting a raunchy, escapist comedy, but I got that, as well as an earnest romantic comedy meets bildungsroman with a tense and dangerous subplot that actually made me cry. The comedic fight scene set to The Heavy's "How Do You Like Me Now" in the trailer is actually rather raw and dramatic in context. There's no music (unlike in "Family's Guy"'s extended chicken fight scenes) to trivialize the anger and brutality.

Almost painful to watch. Mira Sorvino's dumb blonde act doesn't ring true to me. How do they live such an extravagant LA lifestyle without jobs? The real reunion ending makes the inane movie a little better. Mira seems like she can actually dance, and Alan Cumming is surprisingly sexy.

So freakin' long with an exposition that exposes little. Bane's origin story doesn't even surface until halfway through the movie so that there is no suspense or dramatic question to push the narrative along. There are also plot holes/jumps that defy temporal and spatial reasoning. How does Batman get from Bane's sewer hangout to a prison halfway across the world? How does Batman procure the Clean Slate program for Catwoman and what even is it? I am unimpressed with Anne Hathaway as Catwoman. She looks foxy, and her stunts are agile, but her femme fatale voice is overly breathy and cartoonish, "I'm adaptable." Anne has always tried too hard to be sexy (see [or don't see] "Havoc"). For much of the movie, I wished that Marion Cotillard could have been Catwoman.

Major Spoilers *salute*

Of course, Marion Cotillard couldn't be Catwoman. She makes a damn good Talia Al Ghul (except for that weird eye-fluttering death). It was a huge surprise for me, not having read the comics, but I wonder if fans saw the twist coming from a mile away since her alter ego, Miranda Tate, is so bland and pointless.

The ending is unnecessarily emotionally manipulative. Batman doesn't need to die! Shouldn't all harnesses attached to the Batmotorizedvehicle come equipped with emergency releases? Just drop the bomb in the ocean and fly away! GEEZ!

I wasn't into this at all. The miscommunication between mothers and daughters about marriage, duty, and honor are so played out. There's nothing new in this trite script, borrowed from so many Amy Tan novels. The bear plot is unsatisfying as well, but mostly because I abhorred the animation. The mother bear isn't pretty/cute enough :~P, but in all seriousness, she looks too cartoony and not a manifestation of the actual queen character. Disney/Pixar's foray into the new princess movie without a love interest is lifeless and contrived.

I don't wanna be a dick and say teenagers don't have real problems, or even that the teenager in THIS movie has no real problems, BUT the teenager in this movie certainly has issues articulating his problems, so I am left with the impression that this movie just wanted to create a young romance in an unconventional location but neglected to set up the proper groundwork for mental illness or distraction.

I was really excited that Ellen Page was going to play Monica, "the siren ingenue," in Woody Allen's newest film because while she's made her career playing quirky/damaged girls, there's an irresistible quality in her that I find sexy and sensual. Instead, either Woody directed her or she acted as her usual loquacious faux-savant. Styling could have helped. Page needn't have glammed up or channeled Penelope Cruz, but it seems like every aspect of Monica's personality (whether sexy or banal) is spoken of and determined by others, not actually shown on the screen by Page's performance or costuming. Her friend, Sally, keeps saying she's so attractive, but Alec Baldwin's old-man-guide character keeps criticizing her pretentious art and literary references that I wonder why Jack even falls for her. If characters undercut other characters, there isn't much for the audience to fall for. Woody often has such a way with his actresses - whether lighting them or just getting them to smile more. I never thought much of Alison Pill, but she is radiant in a girl-next-door part just because she smiles and wears white and has more outdoor scenes in natural light.

The rest of the movie is Woody's typical, below average, antic-ridden ensemble comedy.

Another win for Jennifer Westfeldt. In disagreement with friend and Flixster reviewer, Jim Hunter, I think the group therapy session is the most amazing scene in the movie. So many overlapping arguments and grievances aired. I especially love Ira's line that criticizes Abby's penchant for people-pleasing, "It's hard being married to someone who's married to everyone."

Seriously the best film I've seen in theaters in a long time. Friend and movie reviewer Molly Brost asserts that the movie is "better than it had any right to be or really needed to be." It's a semi-autobiographical account of Channing Tatum's past as a male stripper in a burlesque revue, and it would have been just fine as prenuptial eye candy, but with Soderbergh at the helm, the film is a gritty, well-paced expose at best, and a marginally cheesy cautionary tale at worst.

Channing Tatum is in his element on that stage. His fusion of B-boy, hip hop, pop and lock is excitingly choreographed and executed. He also continues to charm me with his meathead banter. Cody Horn as Brooke, the sensible older sister of Mike's protege, Adam, is hard as nails with her Marlon-Brando-stuffing-cotton-in-his-jaw underbite. The flirtation between Mike and Brooke is silly yet guarded. She doesn't play hard-to-get. She IS hard to get.

Olivia Munn, whom I don't usually like, even sinks her teeth into a meaty role as the friend with benefits/lesbian tendencies/feelings complex. That post-booty call scene with her on the couch, wiping away tears as if they were sweat, is all at once, pitiful and pure.

My one qualm with the movie is that it doesn't get into the misogyny and misandry of strip clubs - not that strip clubs are inherently objectifying; I can appreciate the art and those who do it artfully. However, this film is of the mindset that male strip clubs are for women's objectification of men whereas I think male strip clubs/revues objectify women just as much as female strip clubs do. The only reaction shown was rabid women, eager to stuff the dudes' banana hammocks with Benjamins whereas in my experience, the most pervasive reaction of an unsuspecting bride-to-be is horror at being bodily thrown over a beefcake's shoulders while he bumps and grinds or mimes cunnilingus. Skeevy Matthew McConaughey reminds the audience that they can't touch, but the strippers are allowed to touch as much as they want, uninvited or not. It promotes male dominance, not just a removed sense of voyeurism.

This was recently on Entertainment Weekly's 50 Best Movies You've Never Seen list, and it certainly is awesome despite its kooky concept of whether Ruby's new lover is a potentially dangerous paranoid-delusional or if he's actually a time traveler from 2470. What I really enjoyed is that I couldn't figure it out either. Sam's backstory and mission are convincingly explained away by some futuristic developments, but everything the shrink says about temporal lobe epilepsy seems valid as well. Vincent D'Onofrio is just sweet enough and just lazy-faced-crazy enough to lend a slight disturbance to this otherwise light romance.

Lots o' web-slingin' fun. I don't remember much of the Raimi trio, but this new incarnation already boasts leads that I prefer over Tobey and Kirsten. Andrew Garfield, of the Highest Hair in Hollywood, is brilliantly moody and tortured, and Emma Stone, of the School of Knee Socks Never Looked So Good, is smart with just a bit of sauce. Their flirtation scenes are so sweet and awkward but not nearly as awkward as Emma Stone can be in her raunchy teen comedies.

The lizard transformation confuses me a bit though. The behavioral changes are irrational. If the lizard serum amplifies baser instincts - such as the desire to make all humans same and perfect - Dr. Connors needed to have a bit of that desire TO amplify to begin with.

A stereotypical badass shows a grief-stricken family how to live again. Devin Brochu as young TJ is quite sad and broken-hearted over his mom's death, but he and the script itself don't seem to know how to handle Hesher's badassery. There's just too much "What are you doing?" and "What are you doing here?" which is like the opposite but equally annoying, "Let me explain."

There really is no rhyme or reason to Hesher's sociopathy. His actions aren't clearly to defend TJ nor to teach him a lesson. On a similar note, NaPo is kinda cute and dorky, but there's no real reason for it. Her character isn't particularly "different," nor do big-framed glasses make a dent on NaPo's She's All That face.

Rainn Wilson is surprisingly catatonic as the father though, and the penultimate scene of the three men "taking a walk with Grandma" is predictable but nevertheless moving.

Keira Knightley is actually rather cute and delightful in this. I don't think I've ever seen her in a contemporary comedy looking and acting kinda kooky. She delivers some great monologues - the first being a happily teary phone call to her family and the second being a loving rumination on records.

I'm starting to get a little weary of Steve Carell's dramatic performances. They're a little too serious even when the situation calls for some lightness.

The sad thing is that after watching two movies about the end of the world back-to-back, I've realized that in the event of an apocalpyse, I'd probably do nothing.

The movie starts off with some beautiful, weird-ass images like "The Tree of Life," but I was actually enjoying it because there seemed to be a concrete narrative with some charming wedding humor - the stretch limo unable to make it around the bend of a country dirt road - and some really sociopathic behavior - Justine driving out to the golf course to take a piss and then later, revenge-raping a naive coworker. Kirsten Dunst is truly marvelous in all of Justine's moods, blissfully happy one moment, dead and secretly enjoying it the next.

The story unravels with the end-of-the-world plot in Part II. There's a bit of nihilist philosophy but not enough to actually BE philosophical or statement-making. The Narrative Nazi in me was hoping we'd get to learn why the two sisters have different accents and the origin of "Auntie Steelbreaker," Leo's nickname for Justine.

Despite my criticisms, the movie ends as well as a movie about a planet colliding with the Earth can end: straight to credits. Props for that.

This is everyone's favorite hipster movie of the moment, so naturally, I am not as enamored. The prepubescent love story is shallow at worst and stylistic at best - riding on the flimsy, optimistic notion that a sound relationship is built upon connecting with a romantic partner who is as fucked up as you are.

The two child leads are charming and winsome solely because they are children made to speak in the awkward, disaffected patois that Anderson's grown-ups use. Jared Gilman and Kara Hayward certainly play their parts well, but after that one moment of overlapping perhaps improvised dialogue when Sam and Suzy meet in the field, he comments on her Sunday school shoes, she says they're not exactly Sunday school shoes, he gives her flowers, she says "thank you" in a normal, flattered, girl voice, I thought the film would start showing them as kids and not just some ideal of star-crossed lovers.

The stylized slo-mo bits are quite beautiful - Suzy kissing Sam's hand after they get married, Suzy blowing a kiss out the window - but there really isn't much else holding the two together. The movie shows some EFFECTS of Suzy's "emotional disturbance" but never the causes. As such, her mysterious rebel appeal is mostly visual - the everpresent blue eye shadow, the white knee socks, her chaste skivvies. This young girl is made desirable through oversexualization, not any redeeming character traits.

Silly fun with great characters: Vaughn with his nerdbomber frames bedazzled with a skull and crossbones, Willie Mays Hayes with his gyrating hips that Steve Urkel must have borrowed, Cerrano with his vaguely racist voodoo worshipping. This is the first time I rooted against the Yankees.

The grooming relationship between the classy, seasoned catcher, Crash, and the callow, rookie pitcher, Nuke, is funnier, more exciting, and more heartwarming than Annie's pseudo-intellectual, baseball is religion, poetry is foreplay, seduction wiles.

Nothing much happens for the first half of the movie. The boys' personalities aren't distinct enough like the Little Rascals, so I lost interest. Like my experience with Groucho Marx, the "You're killing me, Smalls!" line isn't how I expected from years of others' impressions.

It's delightful for what it is...but what it is is a movie about ghost baseball players that I wouldn't watch over and over again, unlike Die Hard. Once is enough :~P The beginning has a nice thrillery feel, and I enjoy how Ray's wife is happily supportive, but when it becomes a buddy road trip movie, the flimsy connections between Terence Mann and Doc Graham just don't cut the cheap ballpark mustard.

What a massive-ass movie. The zooms and tracking shots are jarring and dramatic, the script is sensitive but not mawkish, the soundtrack...actually makes me enjoy Aimee Mann. The bits of eccentric fantasy may be weird but they JUST WORK! Bravura performance by Melora Walters as Claudia, the drug addict with daddy issues. Her hands never stop moving. She spits out her words with nervous urgency as if there are too many others taking up room in her mouth.

Tom Cruise is a rock god. His musical performances are charismatic and thrilling, bordering on psychotic. Say what you will about his real life antics, but he is consistently a damn good actor whose performances show evidence of commitment and work. Malin Akerman has a small, nerdy-sexy part, but it's more interesting than the lead's.

The rest of the movie is pretty darn awful. The love story between Sherrie and Drew takes me down to Vapid City, and it's such a needlessly central part of the narrative. Diego Boneta has a rockin' voice, but Julianne Hough is capable of more than a high, nasal wail and a brief climb up a pole. She cut her film teeth ferociously with "Footloose," but "Rock of Ages" doesn't showcase her singing or dancing at all.

The '80s tunes are great, but the remixing and editing of the numbers is so episodic. Many people dislike musicals because characters just randomly burst into song. The first number, "Sister Christian," is self-aware and successfully pokes fun at that assessment, but the rest of the songs happen so quickly and without purpose. There IS an art to writing musical narrative, but the original book/screenplay seems to be a nostalgic revue rather than a cohesive story.

Very beautiful in its treatment of love, death, courage, existential angst. The repetitious history of the family, the city, the world, as well as the flashback humor, is like a subtler version of The Tree of Life.

Every character has cute little quirks: Hal talking to inanimate objects and replying for them; Georgia "killing" the young Oliver in various ways and "interacting" with the artwork; Oliver's funny/sad drawings; Arthur, the dog's nonverbal dialogue:

Arthur: She's unlike any girl I've met.Oliver: Someone flashy walks into your life and you're just gonna fall for it.Arthur: Are we married yet?Oliver: No, it doesn't work like that. There are other steps. It's complicated.Arthur: I hope this feeling lasts.Oliver: Yeah, me too.

The ending is too easy and open though. Oliver and Anna still have issues far deeper than just "commitment anxiety." They come back into each others' lives, and the audience is supposed to be happy that they're trying again despite not knowing what the fuck they're going to do.

Not having seen this when it first came out and not having really lived through the early '90s, I still find this movie remarkably dated. Perhaps it's the grunge costumes or "The Real World"-esque yuppie ennui. There is some moving dialogue though:

Troy: Besides, everyone dies all by himself.Michael: If you really believe that, who are you looking for out here?

So awful. The championing of superficial qualities in the script is overbearing and cliche, even for high school students. Alex Pettyfer is just a pretty face, and Vanessa Hudgens is so hipsterly twee.

The love story is sweet, and what ultimately needs to happen in order for Adam to grow socially happens, but the representation of Asperger's Syndrome is pretty formulaic. All the symptoms are hit, and everything is explained a little too much. I wish we could have read the rest of Beth's raccoon book. The movie is almost there, but not quite.

An acting master class, for sure. Tom Wilkinson has always been fine for me, but this character - with all his silent regret and suppressed jubilation - takes the cake. The narrative is a bit stodgy, and Dev Patel is the stereotypical Indian business owner who speaks in aphorisms that help the old white folks learn tried-and-true lessons in tolerance, friendship, and self-discovery.

A bit forgettable. Eva Green has the sauciest Cheshire Cat grin. Bella Heathcote, as Victoria, has the most piercing gaze and voice. Chloe Grace Moretz is becoming more sexualized in her mid teens, so, I dunno, good for her?